Looney Lunes #106

Good News, Right?

RAND PAUL OPPOSES A ONE-SIZE-FITS-ALL APPROACH TO EDUCTATION

on the Rand Paul for President website

Maybe it wasn’t a staffer. Maybe he outsourced his website maintenance to the same people who write operation manuals for ceiling fans and Blu-Ray players and answer the phone for your cable company. Or…Oh. My. God. The Russians hacked his website!

The Art of Drowning – Season One Finale

Fix Your Mind in Chaos – by Jac Forsyth

A golden sadness hangs from the throats of sparrows. They sing in counterbalance to chase out the dawn, but as the sun rises the shadows just grow darker.

Do you feel the weight of me on your chest yet? I have watched as you beg for sleep on nights far darker than this. I am feline in my acquainted now, purred into your dreams as easily as rainstorms and rattlesnakes. And yes it seems that in all my honour I have still found pleasure in stealing substance from your flesh.

See, child, how you grow heavy along the skeletal. Time does not hurry so much in its undoing. Still there is a kindness that. Youth brings a terror that age will beg for. Skin and sin, you whisper out confessions from the sanctuary of your bed and I know you right down to the ground. Groan with me, cry your nightmare in salivated ribbons, crawl in plague and platitude until none can bear the stink of you. And when the sky falls in sirens, will you be found still holding onto the crippling of your reason like it could keep you afloat?

Come close, child, breathe with my synchronicity. You think you can find your way back like the winding of twine, but do you really want to see how far down this can go? We rise and fall a billion times, sand to glass, glass to sand. There is always a beginning, but search out the endings and you will find nothing, just a name torn out in bland conclusions and the fabric of familiar shapes.

There is blood on the tide again and still you hide behind the shame of your insanity. I see the tremors of it corrode at the threshold. You know where the answers are but you watch from the hillside. Madness isn’t flat any more than the earth is, but there are horizons of alignment. Find them. Fix your mind in chaos. You think you know salt, but until you welcome the tide into your lungs, all you know of it is the taste.

I have found the keys to all the doors you keep shut, and in the scouring of this bleached flesh there is finally room enough for two. When you wake, will you dare to know me again? Will you touch your fingers to the black mirror? Will you remember how you betrayed us all? Storm is wound silent in cloth and canker. Time is not linear, child, it just looks that way because the scenery is the same.

Sleep then. Sleep on while you still can. But I warn you to heed the songs of sparrows, death has found us wanting too many times for me to fold patience with your fear. Light a match and hold it to your arm, my sweet Caswell. There are some situations you have to burn your way out of.

The Art of Drowning – An Ethereal Mystery

3 writers, no destination – What could go wrong?

Ash N. Finn  The Perilous Reading Society  & Not Very Deep Thoughts

The Art of Drowning – Episode 9

Like the Rain Follows Thunder – by Ash N. Finn

Evelyn wakes knowing she is being watched. The weight of her eyelids sends the flash of a memory to her stirring mind. Swallow this and you will feel better, and she had swallowed the pill like a little girl following mother’s orders to float toward the siren’s call of a simple sweet melody.

She is alone, her room as quiet as the ocean floor. The chair beside her bed still sits at an angle, but the nurse is gone. Beatrice is her name, and she doesn’t like it. Call me Bee, please, everyone does. A dull numbness creeps into Evelyn’s arm, the one that swelled up after a bee stung her. She was only seven when the furry insect injected the poison of the torturing dichotomy of fury and sorrow into her. Violence and despair. She had slapped the creature hard, trampled it to death as it lay writhing on the earth, then howled in grief at the loss of her innocence. It didn’t matter that the bee would have died anyway. They can only sting us once the bees; in a kamikaze act on behalf of their tribe they rip their guts to shreds and spill their amber blood.

A killer’s shedding of tears after extinguishing a life is like nature pouring out rain in the wake of violent thunder. She turns the chair to face the window. The watchers are out there, she knows they are. When you watch someone, be prepared to be watched in turn. Surveillance breeds counter-surveillance. She gives the windowpane a hard, blank stare. A distant thunder sends a shadow, faint at first, now darkening. Here it comes, as she knows it must, the weeping of the clouds. The sorrow after the killing, mixed with the tears of all the lost ones, is pelting her window in the guise of raindrops. “I know you,” she whispers, “I know you all. Have you come to watch me keep my silence and to witness my ever-growing sorrow?”

The Art of Drowning – An Ethereal Mystery

3 writers, no destination – What could go wrong?

Ash N. Finn  The Perilous Reading Society  & Not Very Deep Thoughts

Looney Lunes #105

YOU’RE A VERY NAUGHTY SALAD!

HOME AND GARDEN CALENDAR – Fort Collins, CO

Today!

From the Garden to the Table

FREE: 1.P.M., Gulley Greenhouse, 6029 S. Shields St., Fort Collins

Nancy Brown will demonstrate how to make a delicious Gestapo with herbs and veggies from your own garden.

Exactly what we need. Delicious Gestapo.

 

The Art of Drowning – Episode 8

Mundane Madness – by Phil Huston

Caswell reached over Kylie’s shoulder, tapped the mouse, dragged the playback bar backwards under the video. He let it play for a few seconds and tapped it again.

“There. That frame. Clean it up. Get it out to the two closest coastal territorials. If nothing drops, expand. North and south, not inland.”

“He came in from the water side.” She wasn’t sure if she should feel insulted or ordered about. “He could have come from anywhere.”

“Look at him, Kylie. He’s bloody Aqualung, having a hell of time dragging the body. Whatever he floated in on, it can’t be much. He doesn’t have a car or access to a barrow or a dolly or a friend to help. Our ‘evil wind’ put a tenner in his hand and told him where to take the body. The locals know him. Find him for us.” He could feel the room continue to tighten. “Please.” He paused a proper beat. “The camera is brilliant.” Unasked and possibly dangerous, but he left those on the shelf.

Kylie made a half turn in her chair, her eyes wide. “They’re amazing, aren’t they? They work like cellphones and they’re smaller than the rubber on my pencil.” She practically stuck the pencil in his nose to make her point. “I can zoom it in and out with my phone.” She held up her iPhone like he’d never seen one. “And I used the Juliette herself for an antenna. With a fine wire to the hull?” Maybe he understood. “I signed the req form and when I told the woman that I was working with you and Shona it showed up in two days. Two days! I never get…But, um, are you sure? About Aqualung being local?”

“Until you tell me different.”

“I’m more of a doctor. And a scientist. Than a, um, policewoman, Detect, Cas. Caswell.”

“All to say you’re a first order problem solver with the broadened perspective the heart of a singer brings. Some problems are mundane, like where did our Aqualung come from. He takes us up the ladder to where mundane stops and the puzzle begins. You’ll have your plate full of doctoring and science-ing soon enough. Send a FAX or email through the system, and wait. But not long. Let me know if you don’t get prompt and courteous responses, even if they have nil. When Shona calls, text me. I’m gone fishing.”

“Fishing?”

“For mundane.”

She wanted to ask him if they were running, or seasonal, fresh or salt water and what kind of bait, but…Most men, especially the older ones, were humorless sods. The DCI seemed different. Still, times like this she wished she’d had a father.

***

“It’s not new, but bloody hell, Shona.” Caswell let out a soft whistle, ran his hand along the fender of the dark blue BMW X5.

“The garage had a note. Four-wheel drive, no bullshit. You’ll just deny it, so I won’t ask. I will ask about four-wheel drive.”

“We need to travel close to the water. Low tide at just gone half past.”

“Looking for?”

“Where Kylie’s Aqualung could have beached his boat at high tide. I checked the charts against his arrival time. He didn’t want to drag the body far.”

“You did research work?”

“Kylie was wounded. Scientists and doctors doing boredom. Couldn’t load her up with more and you were busy getting England’s daily missing sorted for us.”

“You backed up on her?”

“She’s a sensitive lass, Shona, and so in love with her toys.” His voice was on the border of humor and sarcasm, and he followed it with a tight smile across the hood of the BMW. “More to it, like you she’s the defensive that being young and bright brings, and not used to me.”

“You’ve had more Ladies First diversity training?”

“No. Dear old Mum’s manners well preached. Good people are hard to find. Harder to keep. Especially when they’re female.”

“Caswell’s compliments and candy, eh? That’s why I’m driving the beach in a drug runner’s wet dream and you’re on goggles duty. In future, if you’ve flowers on your mind? I’m allergic.”

“All the more reason, then.” He shot the tight smile again, opened the passenger door.

***

“He stays in a stone shed on the cliffs off the end of Barnes Farm point.” No one had thanked her for finding the Aqualung suspect, which she was starting to think was an unkind nickname, and Shown was driving like a wild woman. “He scavenges at night.” She had to close her eyes. “He picks up what he can afford at the off license, but no one sees him drink, or drunk. Do you think he –” The blue SUV skidded sideways, Kylie knew they were over the cliff. Caswell was out before it stopped moving, banged the door of the stone shed open.

“Gone. Dammit.” He twisted either way in a hurried survey of their location, swore again under his breath. “Kylie. The quick look now, or with us?”

“Um, I –”

The door slammed, Kylie was thrown against the back seat and Shona was grinding grass and dirt up fifteen feet high behind them. They could hear Kylie singing under her breath, her fingertips on the window as she watched the shed fade away… “and you snatch your rattling last breaths, With deep-sea diver sounds…And the flowers bloom like Madness in the spring…”*

***

Shona killed the lights almost a mile away and idled up on the grassy rise before it turned to sand, the same half mile point as always from the Juliette Simone. They hoped the half-moon between clouds would be enough and settled in to wait. In such deep silence they could hear each other breathe.

“There.” Shona hissed, pointed at a spot halfway between them and the Juliette, thirty yards to the right off straight line.

“Kylie?”

She adjusted her night vision binoculars. “That’s him.”

Shona and Caswell were out of the car, running. She jumped out behind them and was surprised at how quickly they had closed on Aqualung. He was ten yards away when it started.

The screech was deafening. Feedback meets giant steel grating on steel. And the wind. It was all they could do to stand, much less move against it. It started to swirl, picked up speed and sand, spinning faster and faster until vision blurred and the wind became part of the screech from hell. They held up their forearms to protect their eyes, their faces sandblasted.

Kylie’s “No, no, no, nooooo….” was picked up by the wind and amplified a thousand times. Figures who could have been made of cellophane stood around the Juliette, watching, arms folded, immune to the screeching, screams and sand.

Kylie screamed “No, no, no, no, NO!” again, and Aqualung exploded into a fine, red mist that blended with the spinning sand. Sand and blood, the rags he wore and bits of bone. They could barely breathe. Shona flashed on a holiday in Brighton when she was seven, knew she was drowning. The ocean found her a skinny, unworthy sacrifice and spit her back on the beach, choking, coughing up her watery insides in giant heaves.

Kylie’s soft voice blended with the raucous agony of the wind, sand and blood, rags and bone. And it began to abate. The softer she sang, the quieter it became. The all-enveloping, self-contained twenty-yard wide hurricane dropped from somewhere over their heads, down to their waists, on down to their ankles like a dying hula hoop, eddying around their feet until it was no more.

When the song had faded from her throat, Kylie dropped to her knees and fell sideways into Caswell’s leg. He picked her up in both arms, held her like a rag doll while he and Shona stared at the spot where the fisherman they’d nicknamed Aqualung had been. A spot scoured clean by the wind and sand as if nothing had happened.

***

“A French lullaby you said?” He tossed the t-shirt they’d all used to clean their faces over the back seat and waited for Kylie to finish chugging a bottle of water. All three looked like shell shocked, blood covered sun and sand burned tourists.

“Yes. From my Gran. I don’t know why…” Kylie twisted the cap off her third bottle of water, opened another, handed it to Shona, who stuck her little finger in it and tried to get sand out of her ears and nose. Caswell blew his nose on a gas receipt, held it up for the beach breeze to carry away, poured his remaining water over his head. He bent, shook his head like a retriever before he straightened.

“No lasting harm?” He got a nod from Shona. Kylie beamed a smile, grabbed his forearm and scooted from the back of the X5. “I was wondering, working with you two, when the weirdness was going to start.” She looked into her partners’ worried, red faces, shook Caswell’s arm. “If whatever that was didn’t jam the camera? We can watch it on my phone! So much for mundane, huh?”

The Art of Drowning – An Ethereal Mystery

3 writers, no destination – What could go wrong?

Ash N. Finn  The Perilous Reading Society  & Not Very Deep Thoughts

 

  • From Aqualung, copyright Ian Anderson.

The Recruiter

Brian at Bonnywood Manor voiced some concern for what a female in one of his posts had done with a clown’s balloon animals. The following is an editing casualty from The Hot Girl, Part 3. Wherein a Valley Girl Prima Ballerina tells her deepest secrets and desires. Brian, your balloon animals are always safe with me.

Chix-Stix, Beach side of the 1, Central Malibu, CA (Less than a mile from Jim Rockford’s Trailer)

“Oh, awesome! Me? I would so like totally love to play softball with the TV ladies and Kenny and you and, um, like the queen of naked in a magazine girl. Which is, um, totally not right, really. I don’t think. I mean I couldn’t, even, ever…Okay.” Logan composed herself, used both hands to move her coconut chicken bites and broccoli basket half an inch.

“Like after you’re not a virgin anymore? But just because like, you know, you’ve shown it to somebody and that’s over, right, like whew, really, and maybe somebody else, too, but to totally show everybody? I mean I don’t wear much when I dance. And you can tell like how much of everything there is, boobs and butts. But you know you can’t like see them and, um, that, in leos and tights. I guess they all look alike, so what’s the big deal with me and mine, right? Unless they’re all different, boobs and butts and, um, those. But it’s like mine, okay? And, um, not everybody’s.” She moved the basket back the half inch, took a bite of broccoli.

“But it’s okay. I totally want to meet her and everything, because I’m not like prejudiced or anything as long as she’s not a for real mega whore. Is she? No, um, because you wouldn’t, I don’t think. Would you? No? Okay.” She dunked more broccoli in Ranch dressing, turned it around in her finger tips before taking a bite. “A softball team is like a corps de ballet thing, right? With all the same costumes and everything?”

“Jesus, Logan. She’s not a whore, she’s a psychologist now, and you’ll love her. You never played softball before?”

“Yes, I think. But if I haven’t? I can run and jump and they have costumes, so I can totally pretend I know how and be besties with it, ‘cause that’s what I do. Is it the one like baseball? With the boring hard bench thing? ‘Cause that’s like…Well, ewww. Fishing! Not as gross, but for real they both have like the same fun IQ as pavement. Have you ever been fishing?” She reached across the table and took his Coke. Her eyes waited politely for his answer while she drained his cup through the straw.

“My grampa was pretty into it, and we went when I —”

“I did. Once. To be nice, you know?” She set the cup back in front of him. “But what a total gross-out waste of time. This old forgot-to-shave man? He smelled really bad. Like old beer cans you pick up and throw away but sniff first? And like the dead-fish-on-ice place in the back of Safeway by the murdered cows? My dad, we went in a boat to fish with the beer can smelly man. It was like a dad and daughter thing that was totally lame. For me. Dad drank beer so I guess, um, he had fun ‘cause I had to stop talking to him after a while. And eww-my-gawd, Jax, the smelly man? He stabbed a baby fish with a big hook! Right in front of me! I was like get out baby fish murderer! Then I thought, and my dad got mad about this, that like we could go home and I didn’t have to fish anymore after that, right, ‘cause the man was putting a baby fish on my hook so dad could take a picture and be done. And because it was hot and the boat and the man were so-o stinker. And like the whole daughter fishing thing was a huge no-go for me. But dad and the man had beers left. So…”

He looked at her over his cup he’d popped the lid off of looking for anything left inside. “So?”

“So did you know that’s how they catch fish? For real! They totally murder a little baby fish and throw the whole hook thing with the murdered baby fish on it in the water! So some bigger fish will eat the murdered baby fish and get caught! ‘Hi, I’m a baby fish, just living in this bucket of water and old smelly beer and fish guy in rubber pants stabbed me and threw me out here to get eaten! That is so-o com-pletely horrible. So, um, I am like totally off fishing. For-ever. I still like shrimp ‘cause that’s like all about nets and stuff. But not lobster. Because I got in big trouble one time when I was little. This fat man my parents hired to cook lobsters for a dance reception? I told him to like go throw himself into big pot of hot water and see how he liked it. And that he was so-o lucky nobody had a humongous pot for fat lobster cooker men and he was safe until I grew up and got to be rich and had one made for him. But um, that was before I knew dancers don’t like get rich unless they marry one of those old tuxedo men with flowers. So anyway, they murder all kinds of stuff before we eat it! That’s why Kenny is like sort of a vegetarian person. She eats that noodle-y stuff and potatoes and soup. And way too many beans. And bacon. She likes that a lot. Bacon isn’t like a vegetable, it’s like pigs, I think, but she says it has a divine flavor she is totally down with, and —”

“Logan? Softball. Focus. No bench. We talk to people, they take pictures with the TV girls, which is why I need you to help when Randi and Lori —”

“That’s why! You know, why I want to be a softball girl. Because of all the TV ladies. They are so-o awesome. Can I like talk to them and everything, you know, and be like ‘Hey, TV ladies, I’m Logan Bevan-Burns and like I see you every morning inside my TV and you totally have the most amazing hair eh-ver!’ Because they like do. And like awesomeness teeth, too. Can I ask them if they like totally bummed on their braces like me?”

“Yeah, fine. But what we really need is you and Kenny to talk to the people in the bleachers, and bring that ballerina thing because little girls like that and —”

“I can dance in my softball costume? That is so off the…What do I say to them?”

“You tell the Perfectly You is Perfect story better than anyone. I can get you some cards with a good picture of you dancing and Perfectly You is Perfect on the other side. You could autograph them or write ‘keep up the hard work’ or something.”

“Borrrrrrrr-ing. More no fun IQ. What is wrong with you? When we’re little we want it like totally big, not some sweaty girl with a ‘go get’em, princess’ routine. That’s like what dads do. It’s all smelly beer cans and murdered fish and that is like duller than my rubber pirate princess knife. When my ankle was hurt and I was rehabbing and didn’t know what I wanted to do if I couldn’t dance? I worked at Disneyland. In a candy shop for, um…well, like not very long. I wanted to wear a princess costume so-o much, because, like especially Sleeping Beauty when I was there? She was such a snot! Like a ‘Now children, bee-have’ hair-sprayed TV mom and in the bathroom she called them a bunch of handsy little shits. And, well, I think they were, you know, doing that sneaky boy thing. Anyway, this really old man, they called him the princess wrangler? I made him so mad until he like cussed and everything. So I cussed back and said ‘I’m a ballerina, don’t tell me I can’t wear a princess costume because I talk too much! Like we can never, ever talk when we dance and it’s all about the costume, dancing and not talking, you know? So give me the fucking costume and I’ll shut up and show you how princess goes.’” She took a break, squirted some more ranch dressing out for the broccoli. “So. I don’t think I’ll ever be an official princess. Except in a ballet. Are they different? You know, official Disneyland and ballet princesses?”

“Princesses are princesses, I think. Ballet makes them a little more special.”

She frowned. “Only a little?”

“A lot. Softball?” All he could do was wait. “Yes” or “no” from Logan never came without a story. Several stories.

“I have a secret.”

“I’m good.” He gurgled the last of his Coke from the ice.

“So after Disneyland? I have a secret that is way more secret than even it was me who did the big SBD at Blanco’s last time we went and not the dishwasher man who came out of the bathroom that you said dropped a green bomb. I…Oh no! I told you!”

“Jesus, Logan. What secret can be more secret than you cut a weapon grade hungry ballerina fart at Blanco’s and let me blame it on an innocent dishwasher?”

“Sorr-eeee. Okay. I know Kenny paints faces ‘cause she is so like a totally talented painter and dancer person. My secret is I want to be a balloon man sculptor. In my almost official but can’t be because it would be illegal Snow White costume. I want to be an amazing, awesome, totally the best balloon man ever. Only a balloon man girl. Who tells little girls mega super big princess stories and makes them weener dogs and crowns. And flying saucers. And dragons. With balloons.”

“You want to wear a costume and make balloon things instead of play softball? I can live with —”

“No!” She reached over and knocked on his head. “Are you in there, duncemundo? I can like totally run and do that bat thing and everything in my softball costume and then change when you’re tired of me. I can’t be like boring splinter butt bench girl just talking. Mega bor-ing duh. But the balloons would make it so…” She drifted, held up a chicken strip like she was thinking about tying a knot in it. “I, um. I can’t, really. Yet. But, um…” Her secret balloon tying anxiety caused her to almost swallow the chicken bite whole. She separated the rest of her chicken bites and broccoli into neat piles on either side of the fresh squirt of Ranch, picked up one of each, dunked them and stuffed them in her mouth. He could see her thinking.

“But, um?”

“Okay. I found a man. Not like he was lost or anything, he was in the yellow pages. I went to meet him out in the Valley and everything? But he’s like a little weird and, well, mega weird squared, really. He does birthday parties for little kids and he’s like the ultra-est balloon man in the galaxy. His hands are all way ewww wrinkly and his mustache is like white but orange in the middle. And he totally smokes so much he like smokes when he’s not smoking! He said we could work something out for lessons? And I said that was like for real not happening in any universe and so then he said it’s two-hundred dollars for three nights. And I had to bring murdered cows hamburgers for his dinner. Every night! ‘Cause he said first I have to learn how to blow them, right, and then how to make them go bent when I do, and then how to make them look like something. That’s three nights? Yes! So, um, I thought you could go with me. We can take my car with the ‘thank you Jackson and Peach’ way stellar sounding tailpipe things you helped me put in.”

“You’ve thanked me like a hundred times for that when you did all the work. There were probably forty guys standing around Peach’s Garage waiting to see what a prima ballerina from Brentwood with jacked airshocks on a Firebird would do with a blow torch and pair of Cherry Bomb glasspaks. Peach couldn’t buy advertising like that. Let me get this straight, Logan.” He put everything of his on the tray and pushed it to the side. “I need to go with you to learn how to tie balloons into things like weener dogs and dragons because the balloon man is a creepy letch. And that’s two hundred bucks. After that you’re maybe going to bring an almost official Snow White costume to the games? Halfway through you’re going to stuff your pockets with balloons and make weird balloon things for everybody and tell princess stories? Probably based on ballets? Is that my picture of Logan and softball?”

“Yes! You way have it, amigo! Only like duh, Jackson. Ballets are totally based on princess stories, not the other way. And I have an apron from a wood store. You know, like the wood they build houses with? They have doors, too. At the wood store. You know, if you ever need one.” She caught his look. “A door, silly, not an apron. Anyway, the apron has biggo pockets for the balloons if Snow White is out ‘cause of the corps de ballet softball costumes. And that’s like totally okay, if it is. ‘Cause I can’t be like the only soloist, mega look-at-me ego bitch in a princess costume. That would be so-o totally wrong and I’m not, you know, like that. Unless, like when I am the soloist in the princess costume and then it’s okay if I’m a bitch ‘cause that’s for real like, um, you know, my job.” She reached over, set her pasteboard chicken and brocolli basket on his tray, took his last napkin and his wet wipe. “So now you have to kiss me out of my dress again quick before Saturday because I heard it’s like way big time against all your rules to cruise Big-O City with the softball team girls.”

“Logan, I can’t afford balloon lessons and another new coffee table. So —”

“Puh-leeze. You don’t have a coffee table, Jackson. That was at the French lady’s. You only have those like totally the best big pillows eh-ver.”

Looney Lunes #104

Why he gets the big bucks

“There’s no chance that the iPhone is going to get any significant market share. No chance. It’s a $500 subsidized item.”

Microsoft CEO Steve Ballmer

What the hell is on their resume that gets these guys get their jobs?