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The Wings of Lenora Grey I. In the beginning, Frasier Bigg thought, maybe it was an the death that day that brought about The End. This thought, however, did little to relieve his tension. July and sticky. Frasier went out to Salfield to sit with an old friend. The oldest. Salfield was a suburb of Logo City. Frasier Bigg had grown up there. Friend opened a bottle of whiskey and poured two glasses of the sweet, rust-colored fluid over yellowwhite ice cubes. The men drank in silence. The sound of the ice, tink-tink, and desperate against the sides of their glasses, dying swiftly in the heat as they all soon would. The

Friend said: "What about wars?" Frasier Bigg had been lost in a poetic daydream. He said: "Excuse me?" "You say it was all the death that day that brought us here, brought about The End, but it was only seven people bled in the desert, and an eighth one poisoned. If death is truly the catalyst, why now? Why not twenty-five, thirty years ago when the Song Tra Bong ran red as a wet ruby with the lives of a million innocent boys and girls? Why not on the day those Red planes swooped down like cold death and sent Pearl Harbor to Atlantis? Why not the morning Jim Jones treated his family to a new Kool-Aid flavor? Need I go on?" Frasier Bigg shook his head, coughed. Friend leaned forward and poured fresh drinks for both of them. The heat of the day had melted their ice cubes, but the mood in the room had gone somber now, and neither man dared move to the kitchen for fresh ice for fear that the simple act of rising, displacing air, might set off a new chain reaction similar to the one in the desert. Eight people dead. The rest of mankind: as good as. "What's so special about those eight people that the rest of us need pay for their sins?" Friend's second glass of whiskey vanished in an audible gulp, and from across the room, Frasier seemed to feel the thick, crisp burn as the liquor coated the man's throat, settled in his gut. "Does the flapping of a butterfly's wings in Brazil set off tornados in Texas?" Frasier Bigg sat up quickly. His ears were ringing in a painfully high octave. Even with both of his bedroom windows, and in fact, all of the windows in his apartment open, there was no relief from the heat. The heat had body. It was cloying. Dangerous. Frasier threw off the sheet and rose naked and wet from his bed. The clock radio flashed 12:00. The power had gone out again. They call it a brownout when heat causes random power grids to short. Frasier wondered what they would call it when the missles flew and the heat melted both power stations and the appliances they powered with the same prejudice a bachelor uses to pick oranges at the Stop and Shop. Down the hall, the apartment was as quiet as a fallout shelter. The gentle hum of the refrigerator, silenced by the power failure, had popped and sizzled like a needle on a record when the power came back on, eventually smoking into a short. This is how it will be when they come for us, Frasier thought. First a low, gentle hum, followed by a piercing whine; then a defeaning roar, followed by sizzles and pops

and the smell of burning. Then silence. As eternal and mysterious as a black hole. Event Horizon at Ground Zero. Frasier clapped his hands and pulled the refrigerator open. Inside: a head of lettuce, a box with two pieces ofleftover, bacon pizza, a six-pack of beer, and three oranges. Frasier reached his arm into the still, cool air of the refigerator and plucked one of the oranges from its place on the shelf In the dim, oily light creeping in from the street, he examined the fruit. His hands turned and probed it carefully. It was a good orange, Frasier decided finally. He set it back in the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He went into the livingroorn and sat down on the rust colored couch. He must have dozed off watching television. When he awoke, the news was on again. The story was the same. There was only one story now, and the whole World was watching. The Media wanted the people to believe it had begun with the kidnapping of the Vice-President and the First Lady. Frasier Bigg knew it had actually begun the week before that, in a sleepy, desert town surrounded on four sides by veils of heat. It had begun with a five pound box ofrat poison, a loaded shotgun, and Lenora Grey. Frasier Bigg knew this because Lenora herself had told him so. Even though she died that day in the desert, the heat leaving her body and rising into the sky with the rest like water from a canteen poured into a slow moving river she had come to him. She had shared with Frasier a precious commodity: The Truth. The Truth about The End. ll. Rastan Bab was an orphaned refugee of the shanty slums of Syria following the Arab-Israeli war of 1967. Rastan travelled to Iran at a young age where he joined a fledgling terrorist group known as "The Eyes of God." That group funded and executed a number of terrorist acts throughout the World over the next thirty years. A botched job in Africa in the late 1990's left Rastan the only survivor of "The Eyes of God." He floated around Europe for the next few years assisting various underground organizations in their struggles and was rumored to be dead on more than one occassion. At last count, he was wanted by the governments of America, Spain, France, Germany, Ireland, and Britain. No one doubted that Bab was an evil man. No one doubted he would return. No one guessed what happened next. Now Rastan's face was all over the television, looking drawn and tired. His eyes were rimmed with black a wirey beard banging limply from his chin. His message was the same as it had been since Day One. Rastan wanted amnesty. He was tired of running. He just wanted to settle down, maybe take a wife. When the U.S. threatened a nuclear strike, Rastan welcomed it. He went on T.Y. saying he would never release his hostages alive. He dared someone, anyone, to launch a missle at him. It was ironic. America makes billions selling technology all around the globe. No one wanted to be responsible for first strike. Every World leader became Atlas overnight, and a dark skinned, desert madman laughed at them from behind thick, jewelled walls, relaxing in air conditioned comfort, eight hundred warheads strapped to eight hundred missles, all aimed at the United States. But it was Lenora Grey who ultimately put her finger on that magic button. Only

nobody knew it except Frasier Bigg. Rastan held the First Lady in one cage, the Vice-President in another. The cages were set in the center of the throne room of a large, sand battered palace. Rotting on pikes on the walls outside, the heads and partial torsos of thirty-two 10ya:J,Secret Service agents. They had died expressionlessly in the line of duty. Frasier Bigg wondered who among the population of the World would be able to say the same when those inevitable rnissles flew and the sky exploded in a blinding flash of hot light and color. Frasier wondered what Lenora Grey looked like as she died. He wondered what her last thoughts were. Even Rastan Bab was too much the coward to pull the string. He didn't want the blood of every living thing on his hands. That's why he took the hostages. His initial deal was simple. Amnesty. It got simpler all the time. Now he challenged America to strike. burn his country raw, turn cities into mushroom clouds and babies into dust. And while American missles floated silently through the stratosphere, he would program his retaliating salvo and effectively do the same for the good, old, U.S.A. The longer the President resisted, the more likely it became Bab would kill his prisoners. Everyone in the World waited while short men in ill-fitting suits played at measuring the worth of two persons lives against the population of the entire planet. Frasier Bigg had no illusions about the outcome. There was no Easter Bunny, no Santa Clause, no last minute reprieve from the Governor. There was only Death, crisp and fast, like the snapping of fingers. It was the worst heatwave America had seen in ten years and everyone was just waiting to die. Frasier got up and got himself another beer. ill. When sleep finally returned, Frasier Bigg found himself dreaming of the desert, of Lenora. He saw her there, a yellow sundress clinging seducitvely to her golden skin. She took his hand and led him past cacti and rock to her home at the edge of town. It was a small place, one room and one door, with two windows facing out over the dune sea, clocking its progress as it stretched off into the distance, presumably hoping to take over the planet. A slight breeze coaxed Lenora's hair from her shoulders as it passed silently through the room between her and Frasier. . There was a cot in the comer of the room and Lenora pulled Frasier to it, her smile spreading slyly, like a plague, Then their clothes were gone. Not off, but vanished somehow, and they were making love. Fucking really. Rutting like savages, and Lenora was howling like an animal, a wolf maybe, or a coyote, and it seemed to Frasier that the room had begun to melt. There was the sound of a baby crying, high pitched like a car accident and then Lenora was coming on the end of Frasier's cock. Her muscles contracted in an unfathomableecstacy, She pulled Fraser close to her, holding him tight as though in a panic. The walls were gone then, and Frasier dreamed he could see the entire World, like a picture taken from the moon. He saw millions of people, terrified in waiting. He saw ambassadors and delegates swarming around in conference rooms like termites on a log. He saw Rastan

Bab, stroking his wirey beard, lost in exhausting thought. Lenora whispered in his ear. "Does the flapping of a butterfly's wings in Brazil set off tornados in Texas?" Before he could answer, he was back in her dark, cool room, slight water dribbling from the walls. ill the corner the bloated body of Lenora's child, barely a year old. Blood dried crusty in the nose, ears, and eyes. There was an empty box of rat poison, five pounds and yellow. on the floor before him. Frasier knew this was no accident and he turned to Lenora to ask her why, why, when suddenly, the door burst in, one million toothpick splinters, and six men with guns stormed the room, their heavy boots leaving deep grooves in the earthen floor. One man pointed frantically at the corpse of Lenora's child. Not accusingly, but as though proving a point. A single bead of sweat dangled from the end of his misshapen nose. The men were upon her and Frasier Bigg became translucent, a ghost. These men had come to kill Lenora Grey, an insufferable child murderer who knew more than they ever would. She had secrets. The least of which was a loaded shotgun under her cot. She reached for it with one hand while her other flipped the bed onto its side. In the confusion, the flash of olive green, and the unnerving effect of a sudden obstacle, Lenora managed to kill two of the men with solid shots to the chest. The other four men found their senses then and began firing and the air took on the smell of gunpowder and blood. Frasier Bigg could taste liquid metal in his mouth like he was sucking on a train-flattened penny, but Lenora Grey kept her cool. She made no sound and seemed not to blink, even when a bullet snapped at her arm, drawing a thin line of bJood from her perfect, nude form. She kept reloading and firing until all six men were reduced to red mist and body parts. A frightening silence overtook the room like a shadow that moves swiftly as a cloud crosses the sun, Smoke from the gunfight wafted gently upward towards a square hole in the roof cut there for just such a reason, and through two smaller holes blasted into the architecture by the fray. Lenora turned to Frasier. "This is onJy the beginning," she said. Frasier Bigg sat up quickly. His ears were ringing in a painfully high octave. IV. August and sticky. Frasier Bigg went out to Salfield to sit with an old friend. The oldest. Friend set two beers on the coffee table between them as he sunk into the couch across from Frasier. The television was on and Rastan bab was screaming in Arabic or some such ancient tongue. Britain had attempted a rescue mission and failed. Bab had repositioned his rnissles to take aim at several countries now and it was rumored that Japan had offered him more weapons if he promised to spare the Empire of the Sun. Frasier said: "I've been dreaming about Lenora Grey." Lenora had been in the news the week before Rastan Bab and his band of mercenaries grabbed the Vice President and the First Lady. Everyone knew her story. Or thought they did. Only Frasier Bigg knew everything. OnJy he knew it was Lenora's hand that pushed Britain to attack. Just as it was she who caused Bab to do what he did in the first place, Friend said: "That's old news. Why are you still thinking about it?" In the streets outside, people passed by. Life continued as usual. Frasier wondered what this said about man as a species. The World was closer to nuclear war than it had been since the Cuban missle crisis, yet,Mr. Jones was still showing up at his

downtown office to crunch numbers forty hours a week. Frasier wondered if Mr. Jones was planning a vacation this winter Then he thought, nuclear winter and laughed. Friend said: "Jesus, do you really think this is it?' He seemed to be talking to the television more than Frasier. Frasier said:" I've been thinking more about my cause and effect theory." Friend made a face that suggested a reiteration of his wars and massacres theory, but Frasier cut him off. "You asked what made those eight people so important," Frasier said. "I don't think there was anything speciaJ about the eight of them I think there was something special about her. " The media had covered the Lenora Grey story briefly. A young, single mother, half-Mexican, half-Indian, had murdered her infant daughter by force feeding the kid rat poison. In the days that followed, she had gone about her normal routine in the tiny, desert town of Bleak, Texas. She had shown up for her shifts at the industrial laundry, and gone out drinking at the Kitty Korner on Friday night. It wasn't until she showed up at a town meeting the following Tuesday and announced to most of the town that the World was coming to an end, that anyone took any reaJ notice that she hadn't been seen with her child in a while. Lenora Grey was known as eccentric. The population of the trailer park villa topped out at eighty-five and, suffice to say, with the nearest town more than ninety miles away, everyone in Bleak knew everyone else's business. Lenora was rumored to be a worshipper of the moon who built her mud hut in a ring of salt. She often dissapeared into the desert for days at a time and when she returned, would refuse to speak to anybody until she had seen the town's physician. The mystery surrounding her death could perhaps have been put into some perspective had Dr. King not been among the men killed that day. Most of the town's residents agreed that they found Lenora strange, but none of them thought her capable of murder. It wasn't until reporters started snooping around that it was generally admitted out loud that nobody knew who the father of the child was. Two days after the population of Bleak sent six men to deal with Lenora Grey, a Presidential palace in Iran was attacked and captured by a renegade terronst group calling themselves "An Eye For an Eye." The Iranian government sent World-wide notice that the situation would be dealt with. Several countries pledged support. Twenty minutes later, it was reported that the Vice-President and First Lady were rmssmg. Now Rastan's face was all over the television, looking drawn and tired.

In The End, Frasier Bigg imagined all the World waited in much the same way. Alone, or with family and friends, everybody outside, or at windows, looking skyward, mostly silent. Listening. Waiting. Frasier felt much the same way he thought Lenora must have felt as she spooned rat poison into her child's dumb mouth. He felt like he was taking the first step on a road that would eventually lead to a new beginning. He felt that he was part of something larger than himself He wondered where he would end up, and why. It was a question he had asked himself a million times in life, but faced with the imminent possibility of an

answer, he found his throat dry and his blood cold. It was somethlng he'd never experienced outside of a Lovecraft story. He wondered if the feeling was similar to that which Lenora felt as she surveyed the carnage of that day. He wondered if she took a minute or two to wonder or worry or say good-bye before she turned that shotgun on herself. Frasier Bigg stood at the curb in front ofthe building where he paid six hundred dollars per month plus utilities, shoulder to shoulder with his neighbors and their families and their dogs. They all looked skyward like mystified gawkers at a Fourth of July celebration. Frasier tried to look past the clouds, to a place where the stars hang, hoping to find his destiny in the last, few moments of his life. He thought of his recurring dreams, of Lenora taking him to her bed on that fateful day. A low, gentle hum cut the air like a refrgerator snapping on at Midnight, The sound gave way to a piercing whine like feedback from a hot mic. There was a deafening roar like a thousand airliners taking off at once. From two doors down, an old woman brought her hand to her mouth and gasped, and in that gasp, Frasier Bigg heard Lenora Grey say: "This is just the beginning." Somewhere, beyond time and space, in the hazy, grey void that is death, a butterfly flapped its wings.
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Easy, Easy, Wait, Wait Donald Tuck was in the chair. Lynda Hicks was on the couch. He was drinking She was drinking wine. She said: "Come on, baby. Let's do it." He said: "Easy, easy. Wait, wait." Lynda had just gotten out of the shower after working a double shift. She was wearing a short, silky bathrobe that moved across her skin like liquid fuzz. Her hair was piled atop her head, wrapped in a thick, green towel. On the low, end table between them, a boxy, transistor radio squawked and squea1ed as Don' favorite, late-night, call-in, program, began. There was a sudden guitar riff, crunchy and raw, that sounded even more loose through the tinny speaker of Dan's ancient tuner and then Barry Amerika, the man all of Logo city loved to hate, said: "Good evening ladies and germs and welcome to Dead of Night. " Lynda said: "Why don't we do it anymore, baby?" Don said: "I'm tired, honey." She said: "I'm tired too. Tired of never getting laid." He said: "Easy, easy. Wait, wait." Barry's first caller was from Texas. Her name was Suzanne. Barry said: "What's on your mind tonight, Suzanne?" Suzanne said: "Well, Barry, I just don't understand how the American people can support a president who's for war, but against abortion. It seems like a ... What do they call that?" Barry said: "A conflict of interests?" Suzanne laughed and said: "That's what it is alright, Barry. It's a conflict of interests. It's like saying the children of another country aren't as important as the children of our own." Barry said: "God bless America, screw everybody else." Don got up and got another beer The kitchen was filthy. He called to Lynda. "They all want a piece of me, but none of them ever give anything back. Do you know how hard that is for me? I'm not a giving person. She said: " I give it to you, baby." Don came back into the room nodding, He said: "Poetry is a rough game." Lynda said: "I don't see what you've got to complain about. I'm the one who has to go down to that diner every morning and wait tables." Don said: "Hey, I help out with the bills and, as soon as I sell a book, we'll be on easy street." Lynda said: "I've been listening to that song for ten years now." Barry's next caller was a man. He said his name was Neil. Lynda said. "Don't you want to live in a house some day, Don? Aren't you getting tired of these flop apartments with the leaky ceilings, the green walls, and the roaches?" Barry asked, "What do have to say, Neil? All of Logo city is listening." NeiJ made a sound in the back of his throat that suggested maybe he didn't like that idea, but spoke anyway. "Barry? How come they onJy play that song Winter Wonderland at Christmas? The song is about the beauty of a snowstorm. It doesn't seem to have anything at all to do with Christmas."


Don reached over and turned off the radio. There was a knock at the door. Don said: "Come in." Lynda got up and crossed the room. She poured herself another glass of wine from a bottle on the mantle. The door opened. Boyd Williams came in. He was known around town as the Whistler because he was constantly blowing through his pursed lips. Not making a song, per se, but. leap frogging through a winding catalogue of notes which never ended and never began. Many people found him annoying, but Don put up with Boyd because he was artistic and intelligent and, although he was a spaz and a known hophead, he often mentioned things of interest and Don apreciated that. "Hey, Don," Boyd said. Don did not get up from his chair, but said: "Hello." Boyd did not say hello to Lynda, but watched her crossing the room with her wine and said: "Fuck, Don, your woman's naked." Don said nothing. Boyd said: "Can [ get a beer?" Don shrugged. Boyd went into the kitchen. Don heard the refrigerator door open. Lynda hissed: "I hate that guy." Glass containers; mayonnaise jars, pickle jars, and beer bottles, tinked against one another from beyond the doorframe separating the two rooms. Don said: "I like him" She said: "Well, I'm not puting any clothes on for the fucker," and drained her glass of wine just as Boyd returned, twisting the cap off a bottle of beer. Don said: "Nobody's got a gun to your head." Boyd flopped down in a chair across from Don. His presence reminded Don of a circus. His clothes were ill-fitting, brightly colored, and mismatched. He needed a shave, and his hair rose up from his head like a lion's mane. Boyd reached into his pocket and produced a folded piece of dirty, notebook paper. "I drew a picture," he said. Don nodded. Across the room, Lynda got up to refill her glass. Boyd turned his head to watch her and then turned back to Don. He said: "It could be her, " and indicated the paper at the end of his arm with a nod. Don reached out and took it gently. Boyd sat back, sipped his beer, dosed his eyes, and began to whistle. Don turned the radio back on. A woman's voice said: "I'm having problems with my father. He's an ass, and I don't know how to tell him." Don unfolded the paper and examined Boyd's picture. It was black pen and showed the nude form of a beautiful woman spread against the dark, blue lines of the dirty paper. It was well done and had a dynamic that Don appreciated. He looked at the picture for two, solid, minutes, examining every arc of breast and curve of pelvis, and then he folded the page and looked across the room at Lynda as she returned with a third glass of wine. Boyd continued to whistle. The woman on the radio spoke again. "I mean, I love the guy, but he's recently become some kind of religious fanatic and I just don't believe in that kind of crap." Barry Amerika said: "What kind of crap?" The woman said: "You know, God and ail that." The picture could have been Lynda. Don held his empty bottle above his head and said: "Get me another beer?" Lynda smiled COldly. Boyd stopped whistling and opened his eyes. He looked at

Lynda. Lynda looked at Don, then at Boyd. She stood up and walked into the kitchen. Boyd leaned forward and looked at his picture folded in Dan's lap. "So, whatdya think? Pretty good, huh?" Don nodded His eyes were on Boyd's hairline. In the kitchen, the refrigerator opened. Boyd took a sip ofhis beer. Barry Amerika said: "We'll be right back." Boyd said: "What'U you give me for it?" The mayonnaise jar tinked against the pickle jar which tinked against the beer bottles. Don said "What?" Boyd shot a nervous glance at the doorway to the kitchen, and then shot one back at Don. "Look man, I know your old lady doesn't like me, but I need your help. Give me a couple of bucks? You can keep the picture. Like a deal, see?" Lynda appeared. She crossed the room and 'handed Don a beer. "Enjoy," she said. Boyd watched her legs as she moved back to the couch. Don watched Boyd. He said: "Okay." Boyd turned back to him, said: "Huh?" Don said: "Two bucks." Lynda looked up from her wine and said: "What are you two plotting?" Don reached into his pocket and produced two wrinkled and sweaty one dollar bills. He handed them to Boyd. He looked at Lynda and said: "Just negotiating the sale of some fine art." A commercial for a local club came on the radio. "This Friday night at the Kit Kat Klub, three bands: Ares Mayhem, The Process, and Object. Doors open at eight with music from ten 'til two. Admission is six dollars at the door. This is a twenty-one plus show." The ad decended into sonic feedback and screetching vocals then faded out. Dead of Night was back Barry welcomed Kim. Kim said: "My son has fallen in with a group of graphito kids in aUf neighborhood. You know, the ones that do the weird words and the pictures with the spraypaint all over the city?" Barry said: "Yes, I am aware of graphitti." Boyd finished his beer. He put the two dollars in his pocket. He said: "I gotta use your bathroom," got up, and left the room. Kim said: "Well, you know those graphite kids. They stay up all night doing the inhalants and the ecstacy. I've heard that stuff turns your brains into cotton candy. And those pictures of theirs? Worse than littering I say." Lynda said; "So where's this fine art that scumbag sold you?" Don plucked the picture from his lap and tossed it across the room to her. She leaned forward and caught it in the air. She had to put her drink down on the carpet a unfold the paper but she quickly picked it back lip and took a sip as she examined the picture. After a minute, she took another sip. She said: "This could be me." Don nodded. He took a drink of his beer. He said: "You been visiting with that scumbag when I'm not around?" Lyndajust looked at him. The look was cold and confusing like a weird dream where you can't remember how to tie your shoes or dress yourself Don couldn't read it.

Lynda had made a splash the year before when she' modeled for a photo spread in a local art mag called "Killkop." The issue aJso featured an interview with Boyd Williams. At the time, he had a showing of recent paintings and drawings hanging at a downtown gallery called Visitors. The guy who owned Visitors was Marc Wade. He let Boyd set his own prices, and Boyd let it all go to his head, overcharging like a solar panel on Mars. As a result, the pictures had sold poorly. Don had bought more of them than anyone else. Boyd came back from the bathroom and sat down behind his beer. He said: "Hey man, you know where I can get some junk?" Don sipped at his beer. Barry welcomed Earl. Earl said: "Do you think the American govemment is spreading diseases in Asia in an attempt to minimize the population of those countries?" Barry said: "To what end?" Earl sai d "Well, if we thin 0 ut the nu mbe rs a ver there, we're sure to take them ina ground war. I think the president is planning to attack the Orientals and rid the World of Communism once and for all." Barry said: "'Oriental' is a style of rug sir, 'Asian' indicates the people." Don sipped at his beer and said: "I can hook you up with some Morphine." "Do I know the guy?" Boyd asked. There was a knock at the door. Lynda got up, rolling her eyes. She said: "Oh, joy, maybe it's some of your theatre friends." She moved towards the door. "Or better yet, maybe a poet with a bottle of rye. " Don said: "Right about now, I'd rather have a bottle of wine" Lynda opened the door. The landlord was there. His name was Austin. Austin said: "Evening, moll .. You got the rent this month?" Don got up and walked to the door. He gently moved Lynda out of the frame and stood facing Austin. Don said: "Hey," and put on a fake sallie. Austin smiled back. Don couldn't tell if the expression was sincere or not. Austin said: "Let me guess, you don't have the money now, but as soon as you sell a book .. " He tilted his head to the left slightly. Dan's smile peeled away from his lips, slid down his chin, and dropped off onto the floor. He wasn't quite frowning, but his face had gone limp. Austin turned to leave, but called over his shoulder: "That's five months now. One more, and you guys are out on the street." Don closed the door and sat back down. He looked across the coffee table with its empty bottles and full ashtrays. Ie said: "Do you know Tommy Long?" Lynn was back in her seat. She sighed. Barry Amerika responded to a caller named Bill by saying: "1 know what you're going through, your whole world has been turned on its ear." Boyd said: "The Roach?" That was Tommy's nickname. They even listed it as his a.k.a. in the Logo City Daily News whenever he appeared in Court. Once or twice, it had even shown up that way in the Salfield Cryer. Salfield was a suburb of Logo City and rumored to be where the Roach grew up. Don nodded. Boyd said: "1 know him." Don said: "He's got the shit." Boyd snatched his beer from the table and sat back. He said: "I can score off the Roach, he knows me. The only problem is, he sometimes hangs out with that caphead Smitty." Two years before, Boyd Williams had been picked up on a trafficking charge.

Nothing more than dime bags of pot and a few caps of H, Boyd, however, had been busted Just three months earlier for possession with intent to distribute and not far from a junior high school to boot. It seemed likely he was going to get shipped. So Boyd Williams ratted out his dealer, Smitty Wright. Smitty did three years and never forgave Boyd. He told everyone he talked to that he would kiU Boyd the Erst time be saw him on the outside. Why Boyd had stayed in Logo City all that time was anybody's guess. Lynda. cleared her throat. Don kept his eyes on Boyd. Don got up. "Want another beer?" he asked. Boyd nodded. Don said "1'11give the Roach a ring while I'm in there. Make sure the coast is clear for you." Boyd nodded again. Don went out to the kitchen. He could hear Barry Amerika telling his listeners thar there wasn't much time left to call ill. The voice was muffled through the wall like a scream through a mouthful of sock. He opened the refrigerator and took out two beers. He opened one and pulled a long hall. The phone was a lime green, wall number. He pulled the receiver to his ear and dialed the Roach's number. Tommy picked up on the third riog. "Tommy? It's DOll Tuck. "Hey, what's up?" "I'm looking. It's for a friend" "Who's the friend?" "Boyd Williams. Wants a two dollar cap." The Roach said: "Well, you can send him by here, but tell Smitty's going to be here in like twenty minutes, so he'd better burry." "I'll let Jilin know," Don said. He said: "Thanks," and hung up. Don picked up the beer he'd gotten for Boyd from the dish littered counter top. The kitchen was filthy. He walked back into the livingroom. Boyd had moved across the room and was sitting on the couch next to Lynda. He was whispering something into her ear and she was laughing, shy and quiet. Don said: "Here's your beer." Boyd started slightly and then looked up at Don and said: "Oh, thanks," nervously. Don handed him the beer Boyd stood up, opened the bottle, took a drink as he crossed the room. Barry's last caller was named Jeff. Jeff said: "I saw these ads on television warning me to get tested for butt cancer" The sentence ended in an inflected tone that made it seem like a question. Barry asked: "And what is your question?" Jeff said: "I just think it's disgusting that so many people without health insurance are being urged to test themselves for obscure diseases when they can't even afford to go to the doctor for regular check-ups. When will the Government learn that we need healthcare more than we need going to war?" "Did you get ahold oftbe Roach?" Boyd asked. Jeff said: "You would think, after Vietnam, the World would have learned that war is not the answer." DOll nodded. Boyd said: "What did he say?" Don looked at Lynda. She had retrieved her bottle from the mantle and was back on the couch, pouring the last of it into a wineglass. Don said: "He wants you to kill about twenty minutes and then stop on by." Boyd


nodded. He took another drink of his beer, set the bottle down on the table, said: "Well, 1 guess I'm gonna go then. I'll catch up with you later." Don said: "Okay." Lynda nodded. Boyd sai d: "Thank you," and "Good -bye," and left. Don got up and locked the door and then sat back down in his chair and worked on his beer. When it was gone, he leaned forward and took Boyd's unfinished beer. Lynda finished her wine and said: "I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean nothing by it." Don wasn't sure what she was apologizing for, but he nodded. Lynda put her empty glass down on the carpet next to her empty bottle. She pulled at the cord around her waist and her short, silky bathrobe fell open. She rubbed her nipples with her thumbs and moaned. She traced her ribcage with her left hand and then began sliding that hand up and down over her crotch. She said: "Come on, baby. Let's do it." He said: "Okay."


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Double You, I, I, 1 Despair lies beyond these walls like the ghost of some secret or lie I told long ago corne back to haunt me. Loneliness acosts me like picking up the same hitchiker on the same piece of road every day for one million years

or at least until
the bombs fall and the World dies in a great and beautiful cloud of light and color.

I like to lie in bed and pull the covers up tight below my chin like a bib and just pretend that the World outside, the despair, the lonliness, and the bombs, do not exist. I like to smell your pillow, clean and light like a bag full of souls or the flash of death that comes with the End. I pretend that we will be you and I, and that smell next to my head, together for one miUion years or at least until the bombs fall and the World dies in a great and beautiful cloud of light and color.

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Fever I've been having dreams lately, about you and me. And in these dreams, 1 am a hippie with long hair and a dirty shirt without a collar. I have a patchy beard, mostly on my chin, silver rings and bracletts, and a necklace made from hemp. 1 drink less, but smoke more pot. 1 continue to ingest hallucinagens on pretty much the same schedule, however; neither more nor less than a few times a year. We live together and you are a hippie, too. You love astrology and the Orient. You wear blue eyesbadow and walk around barefoot. Your long hair hangs greasy in your eyes. OUf place is in the woods in a great, log cabin with a unroom which gets covered with snow in the winter and we both read Casteneda. Or maybe it's a nigh-tenement on the lower, West side of someplace exotic like New York Of San Francisco. You get pregnant and I write "Love Child" on your belly with a black, magic marker.

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Howard Gardner in his book. Frames theory .of "multiple intelligence." different intelligences:

of Hind, expresses his tiis theory outlines seven

1. Linguistic Intelligence is characterized by ~ sensitivity to w.ord meaning, ~ords sounds, sentence structure, erid: expression of meaning in terms of language. This intelligence involves reading, writing, listening and speaking. 2. Logical-Mathematical Intelligence is characterized by "confronting objects • .ordering and re-ordering them, assessing their quantity, supposition about their relationships and the actions one can perform upon objects, and the moving to the realm of pure abstraction of ideas." 3. Husical Intelligence is characterized as an awareness of "tones in the head,"sensitivity to pitch and timbre, and sensitivity to rhythms. Competence in the area of mathematics often accompanies musical intelligence. 4. Spacial Intelligence involves the ability to recognize objects from different angles of.view, to imagine the movement of objects as they pass through various changes, to think about spatial relationships clearly as the observer changes position, and to visualize spatial experiences. 5. Bodily-Kinesthetic Intelligence is characterized control of bodily motions and the capacity to handle skillfully. by superb objects

6. Interpersonal Intelligence is distinguished by the ability to discriminate among feelings, moods, temperaments, motivations, and intentions of others. often· even when these have been disguised or hidden. 7. Intrapersooal Intelligence involves the awareness of one"s own inner life. One"s own feelings, moods, temperaments, motivations, and intentions are discriminated and understood.


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local Ulerature Since 1991

You Donlt Have to Assault a Poel You Just Have to Ask .. !

in COLOR from



NaleBradford NaleSpearing Isaac Wright Serb Hardv Abbie HoHman Catalogue: Alias Publishing C/O Nat.1Bradford 18 GarlandStreet Bangor, ME04401 Produced by HaleBradford 'AlIas -..... ' Directed byfNal8Bradford