Estadio Vicente Calderon : Final Photograph by John Doyle

Atletico Madrid 3 Osasuna 0
13th November 2010
 
It was (recalling Patrick Jones)
- an everlasting -
 
skies forgetting  that white
morphs into blue,
 
traffic's drift like swarming tufts of goldfish,
beneath us, almost - the cracks of brutal
 
yet tender concrete, the man who handed me a souvenir
nine years before - gratis; I set him free too, his face
 
like an envelope burning;
the mascot was eight years old, 
 
though things change in time -
they really don’t, 
 
a grandstand 
made dizzy by bumblebees 
 
disguised by automobiles,
standing there like my grandfather 
 
all alone in the hospital corridor;
Dutch girls visit student nurse friends
 
next door -
Dutch girls who left us 
 
at the Vicente Calderon,
alone in a hotel corridor.
 
Death has an easy job, 
but must get real lonely
 
killing the beauty we find, even in concrete, 
even in death itself

John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.

He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.

Death Proof by Amrita Valan

Not a woman
Not a child 
Not a ghost
Not a goddess
But a shadow
A faint shadow
A fake profile  
Of a human
A fading away
A waning away
A dying away
Never dead

The undead lives
Its proof it breathes
Stale air
Dead air

Death proof
The living dead.

I am from India, mother of two small boys. I hold a master’s degree in English literature.I have worked in BPOs, and as content creator for simulation management entrance examination papers,(deductive logic in English), as well as in the hospitality industry.(As receptionist at a five-star hotel) while awaiting results of my English honours examination. I love life, like tumbling headfirst into it, and then doing a double take to step back and observe it.I have written over a thousand poems on genres including Love, Spirituality, Family, Religion, Current affairs, Human Rights, a few short stories, funny poems and tales for my children.

Feet by Susan Tepper

Come this season 

your feet, cracked

and worn down

cannot be traded for

corn or trinkets.

No such comaraderie

cross-legged

around low fires

this season.

In any bargain who would 

accept such feet?

You walked possibly 

the exact route

repeating 

year in / year out.

An unprepossessing

landscape—

‘til there wasn’t a pouch 

of fat on your body;

starved to unforgiving.

Bones creaked when bending

to rub your feet.

Here’s the thing: 

A time slot is

destined to be pre-paid.

Susan Tepper is the author of nine published books of fiction and poetry.  Her most recent titles are CONFESS (poetry published by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and the road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019).  Tepper has received many honors and awards.  She’s a native  ) New Yorker.  www.susantepper.com

guards by Tanya Rakh

the way the guards go up

and we cannot tell

anyone but you—

but you say we cannot 

tell you, either.

Tanya Rakh was born on the outskirts of time and space in a cardboard box. After extensive planet-hopping, she currently makes her home near Houston, Texas where she writes poetry, surrealist prose, and cross-genre amalgamations and works as a professional manuscript editor. Her poetry has appeared in journals including Danse Macabre, Literary Orphans, Yes, Poetry, and Miletus International Literature Journal and is featured in several issues of Alien Buddha e-zine. Her first poetry collection, Hydrogen Sofi, was published in 2019 by Hammer & Anvil Books.

Night Pall by Susan Tepper

There are things to tell

explain— but summer

was bright and pretty

I didn’t want to—

cast another spell across

essential blooming.

Now shortened light

a walk down the hill

dragging trash 

to the curb

leaves crunching.

This night pall 

brings back 

the losses un-gained.

Susan Tepper is the author of nine published books of fiction and poetry. Her most recent titles are CONFESS (poetry published by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and the road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019). Tepper has received many honors and awards. She’s a native ) New Yorker. www.susantepper.com

American Pie by Tissy Taylor

Where I can no longer see

What it feels to be

Unweighted and

Unafraid

Justice on its knees

Waging a war

I don’t believe

 

Why does the blind man plead?

An ignorant place

Lies underscore

Sense of grace

Bloody footprints walk

Eyes that are vacant

Still I do weep

 

In your great vessels of steel

We carry your greed

Across our backs

Our naked

Souls and brittle bones

Weary beneath

A heart still beats

 

Across this great plain of change

Trumpets sound your name

Herald your peace

Lend me faith

I beg you to bring

A perfect rose

To tide this rage

Communications Manager/Business Analyst for Automotive Industry giant. Born and raised in Ontario, Canada. Writing since I could hold a crayon in my hands. Penned a weekly family column in two community newspapers. Writing poetry is my passion. My first book of poetry “Madness, Chaos Unravelled was recently published. 

www.iamtissy.blogspot.ca

Whores and River Hawks by Susan Tepper

Prowling shoreline

you went for the whores

and river hawks 

navigating

rock and fissure

lichen grew 

a coat between 

your legs

while I stayed behind

stiff in straight-back chair

Illusion of serenity.

Then winter—

a sun less strong.

Susan Tepper is the author of nine published books of fiction and poetry. Her two most recent titles are CONFESS (poetry from Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019) that was shortlisted at American Book Fest. Other honors and awards include eighteen Pushcart Prize Nominations, a Pulitzer Nomination by Cervena Barva Press for the novel ‘What May Have Been’ (re-written for adaptation as a stage play to open in NY next year), shortlisted in Zoetrope Contest for the Novel (2003), NPR’s Selected Shorts for ‘Deer’ published in American Letters & Commentary (ed. Anna Rabinowitz), Second Place Winner in StorySouth Million Writers Award, Best of 17 Years of Vestal Review and more. Tepper is a native New Yorker. www.susantepper.com

The Night is Heaving. By Kevin M. Hibshman

My spirit is squirming like a toad in a jar.

I am so tired I can't even feel my face anymore.

Sleep is some far off place my body has lost the directions to.

It's alright.

I got a feel for this well-traveled road.

It's called “insomnia” and I have been down it many times before.

Where is the reset button for my mind?

Who is sitting on the remote?

This night is pale and heaving.

I think it's time you all were leaving.

It's like that feeling you get when the air is too close for breathing.

Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide.

 In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).

People Are Different Writers Are Worse by John Patrick Robbins

We sat at the bar and the conversation just fell into place.

We spoke about our jobs all the normal kill the time and hopefully catch a buzz bullshit.


"Has your writing ever got you laid ?"

I didn't bat a eye with my reply.

"Three times, the first lasted nine years the last was eight."

"What about the one in the middle?"

I lit a smoke, handed my friend of the moment one as well and lit it for her.

"Well the third was an editor."

She looked at me puzzled.

"So I give, What does that mean"?

"Well she took months to  accept me, Fucked me once then just as soon forgot me."

"Was it any good?"

"Well any sex beats no sex my dear."


I ordered us two more and we kept joking. The night moved well.
And soon she went home with me things looked up.

She stayed the night.

And stole a book of mine.

I never heard from her again.
Until I read about our encounter in some oddly named ezine.

Apparently she was a critic.

I would fill you in on the details but needless to say it wasn't a rave review.

John Patrick Robbins, Is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Black Shamrock Magazine. 

His work has been published in. 1870 Magazine, Romingo' s Porch, Heroin Love Songs, Punk Noir Magazine, San Pedro River Review, San Antonio Review,  Red Fez and Piker Press. 

He is also the Author of If Walls Could Speak Mine Would Blush published under his pen name Frank Murphy from Syndicate Press. 

His work is always unfiltered.

https://www.amazon.com/Walls-Could-Speak-Would-Blush/dp/1678199206/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=If+Walls+Could+Speak+Mine+Would+Blush&qid=1595552825&sr=8-1

To Take Home by Susan Tepper

The day I anticipated death

was cold and gray

the way a death scene

might be staged in a movie.

I left my house  

wearing warm clothes  

in anticipation of 

how things would play out.

Not one to give in easily

last moment 

I’d grabbed a black cashmere

scarf to loop fashionably.

Got some coffee then chose

a table where the wind was

least likely to pummel me

each time the door opened.

Near closing time my favorite

counter man offered me

free bagels to take home.

I declined.  Because really

what was the point. 

With it coming on fast 

like a spike driven ear to ear

out the other side.

Susan Tepper is the author of nine published books of fiction and poetry. Her two most recent titles are CONFESS (poetry from Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019) that was shortlisted at American Book Fest. Other honors and awards include eighteen Pushcart Prize Nominations, a Pulitzer Nomination by Cervena Barva Press for the novel ‘What May Have Been’ (re-written for adaptation as a stage play to open in NY next year), shortlisted in Zoetrope Contest for the Novel (2003), NPR’s Selected Shorts for ‘Deer’ published in American Letters & Commentary (ed. Anna Rabinowitz), Second Place Winner in StorySouth Million Writers Award, Best of 17 Years of Vestal Review and more. Tepper is a native New Yorker. www.susantepper.com

The Rescue. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

We were getting drunk and stoned

down in James’ basement.

While I hoarded the music player 

by the pool table that people 

fell asleep under. 

And this drunk chick brought in this cat 

from the backyard,

probably someone’s house cat that 

had gotten out, but it didn’t have any tag 

so this idiot convinced all the others that it was wild

and should be released back into nature

and even though I knew it complete bullshit,

we all piled into that van.

No one fit to drive,

but someone must have been at the wheel

or fossil fuel-based propulsion 

doesn’t work.

Driving to the outskirts of town,

the van didn’t even stop.

Just drove past this heavily forested area

with the side door opened up 

so Fluffy or whatever the hell its name was

could be tossed out and introduced 

back to the wild.

   

You realize it’s the height of bear season?

I said.

And there’s coyotes and rattlesnakes 

and starving wolf packs.

But no one wanted to hear it.

They had rescued a cat and released

it back into the wild.

Back into its natural habitat.

Then we drove back 

to that basement where the whole 

mess had started.

More drugs and drink than ever.

A slobbery hook up 

in the back room 

making a baby when 

they didn’t even 

know it.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly,The Rye Whiskey Review, Outlaw Poetry Network, Under The Bleachers, The Dope Fiend Daily and In Between Hangovers.

Check Ryan's newest book from Marathon Books.

The World Will Not Stop Bleeding

https://www.amazon.com/World-Will-Not-Stop-Bleeding/dp/B08DSSZN8W/ref=sr_1_30?crid=3JE2R9DACFVRR&dchild=1&keywords=ryan+quinn+flanagan&qid=1596643940&s=books&sprefix=ryan+quinn+%2Caps%2C188&sr=1-30#immersive-view_1596845172835

My Pied Piper by Hugh Blanton

When I was discharged from the army at Fort Jackson South Carolina, I was asked to fill out a form and write in my hometown so that they could give me a bus ticket home. I wrote in Virginia, Minnesota, even though I had no intention of going back. (Virginia, Minnesota threw the pogue who processed my discharge for a loop. "Virginia's not in Minnesota!" he yelled.

Whenever somebody says that I go through my spiel on the history of the small town of Virginia in Minnesota until my listener's eyes glaze over.) In the four years since I'd been gone my mother had died, and her husband, my stepfather, was a bastard that I had no desire to see again. They say that the army gives you the skills that employers love to see when hiring; they say that it makes men out of boys. Neither is true. I was an 11-B, that is to say a "ground stomper" or "bullet stopper," which doesn't really offer anything an employer would want to see, especially since I'd never even been in combat. I spent more time with a mop handle in my hands than an M-16.
 
   The least I could have done was save up enough money to buy a car while I was in the army, that's what most people did. But I blew all my money at bars and 'lending' it to 'friends.' So when I walked off base that final time, well, I just kept on walking. It wasn't so bad. I was 22 years old, ecstatic at my new freedom, and could do whatever the hell I wanted to (at least within walking distance).

About 150 miles and one week later I found myself in Greenville, hot and tired, unable to decide what to do next.  A downtown fake Irish pub was open at noon, only one other drinker in the bar, and it was a perfect place for someone like me with a lot of time on his hands to make a decision, except for one thing—I'm terrible at making decisions. That's why I never made sergeant, even though I passed the written and physical test.

The lieutenant said I lacked decisiveness and leadership abilities. He was right and I didn't argue with him. Drinking, daydreaming, and avoiding responsibility was about all I was good for. I picked at the label on my sweating beer bottle and the other drinker in the bar, a moose of a man over six feet tall and 250 pounds with a beer bloated face, introduced himself.
 
   "You look like an army man," he said, pointing at my duffel on the floor next to my barstool. "My name's Arthur Kelly." We shook hands.
       
    "Just got out a week ago. Dewey Ellsworth," I said.
   
 We chatted on about the typical nonsense that strangers in bars would talk about, but he was adept at avoiding boring small talk. The food stained sleeveless shirt and the beefy, tattoo covered arms led me at first to think he might be a moron, but he wasn't. He displayed a particularly twisted misogynistic  sense of humor whenever an attractive woman appeared on the closed-captioned television screen behind the bar, but he was also intelligent and witty.

 Right about the time the happy hour crowd started shuffling in, the conversation turned toward me and my post-army plans.
 
   "Well, that's what I came here to ponder, before you so rudely interrupted me," I said, laughing and drunk off my ass.
   
  "You don't seem like a career man to me," he said. "Do this. Come with me to Tennessee to cut tobacco. We work for two or three months, get our money, then hit the road again and get drunk."
 
       "Sounds like hard work."

       "Yeah. But right about the time you get sick of it, it's all over. Let's go."

       "How much per hour?"

       "How much what per hour?"

       "What's the pay? How much per hour?"

       He laughed. "You don't get paid by the hour. It ain't McDonald's. You get paid by the stick, how much tobacco you cut."
     
 I had tapped into my last fifty dollars when I bought my last beer, and while I didn't know exactly how long my money would hold out, I knew it wouldn't be long if I kept sitting in bars. "All right then," I said. "When do we go?"

      "Should have left about an hour ago," he said. "My ride's late."
     
Even if this turned out to be a bad decision, I would be absolved because I'd let him talk me into it. Nobody could blame me if I ended up on some stupid job on a stupid tobacco farm—because it hadn't been my idea. It had been Arthur Kelly's. I kept repeating this to myself as we rode in the back of a stake bed truck across North Carolina and into Tennessee. And maybe it'd be all right anyway. He seemed to know what he was doing, he seemed like someone I could trust, even a little bit wise.

He was 40 years old, and I could use his extra two decades of life experience as my own as I set off on my post-army adventure. And this was what I wanted anyway.

When I left small-town Minnesota to join the army, I wanted to see the world. I never saw anything but barracks and forested "proving grounds." Now I'd really see it. Arthur said that after harvesting season was over, he was heading west, and I could come along with him. But first I had to get through this tobacco cutting, and that didn't sound like a whole lot of fun. Well, at least it was temporary. And besides, it would be an experience—a part of the world unseen by most.
     

The farm was between Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge, hundreds of acres of tobacco as far as the eye could see. The farmer, Jack Grisham, greeted us rather abruptly. "You was supposed to been out here a week ago, Kelly," he said. "Who the fuck is this skinny sorry ass with you?" Arthur introduced me and explained I'd never cut tobacco before. "He pulls his weight or he's outta here," Grisham said. "I ain't got time for no soft hands round here." We went to our sleeping quarters—the loft of a barn—and Arthur exclaimed that the hay on the wooden boards was the lap of luxury.

Apparently Grisham's wife had demanded that the hay been put in for the workers to sleep on. Every year up until now they'd been sleeping on the boards if they didn't have a bedroll. There were five other men up there with us, all of them bearded, tanned, and looking like they'd given up on living. They spoke in half-sentences and grunts. We got up at dawn the next day.
   

 I didn't sleep well in the barn loft, in fact I didn't sleep well in the truck ride over from South Carolina despite being drunk, so I was not prepared for a full day of work in the tobacco fields. I stuck close to Arthur, following his lead and advice. One or two wacks at the stalk, turn the stalk horizontal, then impale it upon the stick. Seemed simple enough, but after about an hour he was several yards ahead of me, encouraging me to pick up my pace. After a couple of hours he came back and told me I needed to pick it up. After three hours he was so far up ahead of me I couldn't see him anymore. His one or two wacks was my three or four, and then several attempts at getting the damn thing on the stake. By noon the swarming insects were driving me mad. Nearly every time I flexed my arm, a sweat bee in the crook of my elbow would give me a sting. When I took my second stick of tobacco to the barn to be recorded, the tobacco hanger told me it wasn't full enough. He said I could take it back out and fill it, or leave it there without getting credit. I chose to leave it. Lesson learned.
     

We were given water and pinto beans prepared by Mrs. Grisham at noon. As we ate and rested, Arthur admonished me to work faster. One of the other workers, Orson I think his name was, said, "Fuck him. Let him work slow. More money for the rest of us." I had the feeling of being a lamb within a pack of wolves, but with Arthur as my protector. He knew all of the other tobacco cutters, they all did this year after year, migrant workers traveling throughout the southeastern US, or in Arthur's case, the entire country. They didn't just limit themselves to farm work, they also did construction, railroads, freight yards—on and on wherever unskilled labor was needed. None of them could handle or want the nine to five. They were confirmed vagabonds.

    The end of the workday was at sunset, which at that time of year was about 8 at night. We all walked back to the barn, my ass so low it was dragging grasshoppers out of the weeds, but everyone else seeming energized and in good humor. We received our second meal of the day there—a can of chili; no can opener provided. Fortunately, one of the other guys shared his P-51 with the rest us. The food was deducted from our pay, and as I found out later, so was the 'rent' for sleeping in the barn loft. After finishing my chili, I headed up to the loft leaving everyone else at the back of the barn discussing their recent travels.

The stinging insects that tormented me during the day were replaced by mosquitoes at night. Goddam, not even training bivouacs in the army were this fucking miserable.
       I was even slower the second day—during the night blisters had raised on my hands from the machete handle. None of the workers were wearing gloves, yet none of them had blisters either. I didn't understand it, and I didn't ask. I was planning an escape, there was no way I could take another couple of months of this. Arthur pulled me aside that night after work, he was perceptive enough to see that I was in distress. "It's just a few weeks more. Don't worry about it. All new guys start off slow. Grisham talks a lot of shit about firing slow workers, but he never does it. You'll be all right. Just stick it out." He continued on with a pep talk, and told me as soon as this nasty job was through, I could hit the road with him and we would have a drunken good time.

It worked. I went out the next day and did better. Each day after that I cut more sticks than the day before. We got Sundays off.
       Right about the time I had adjusted to the routine of tobacco cutting, and my hands had toughened up enough to get through the day without pain, we were done.

Eight weeks to the day of our arrival on Grisham's farm, the harvest was complete. Everybody grumbled a bit about the rent and food deducted from our pay, but the overall mood was good. We all went our separate ways, but with the same plans—hit the road and get drunk. The guy who gave us a ride from Greenville, Alex Castaneda, offered to take Arthur and me as far as Athens, Georgia where Arthur's 1977 Chevette was waiting for him, being kept by a friend. As we rode in the back of Alex's truck, Arthur told me about all the places and people we would see on our road trip.

He had more money than I had—he of course cut a lot more tobacco than me—so he assured me he would cover me for some of the food and booze. Arthur seemed downright giddy about the whole thing, as if road trips were his raison d'etre.
 
   His car hadn't been kept very well by his friend—all four tires were flat and the windshield wiper blades were missing. The first thing I noticed about the tires after they were pumped up was that they were bald. The first thing I noticed about the engine after it started (which took four cranks) was the blue-gray smoke it puked out of the tail pipe. Maybe it would be faint enough at freeway speeds to avoid arousing the attention of highway patrol. We were bound for New Orleans, 500 miles away, to Arthur's favorite house of ill repute, where his favorite prostitute was waiting.

"Booze and hookers, boy!" he told me. "That's what makes the US of A great!" He told me of all the destinations we might hit after New Orleans, but all of them were tentative. "Hell, we may head up to North Dakota, boy," he said. Then added, "No, I gotta get out to Slab City. Got a girl there that gets a little crazy if I don't drop by to see her at least once a year. But who knows? Maybe North Dakota awaits! We shall see, we shall see." Like a sailor who has a girl in every port, Arthur had favorite prostitutes in cities across the country. It didn't dawn on me until we crossed the Alabama state line that we were without a map.
     

I had some vision of us sleeping out under the stars, but when we got to New Orleans Arthur paid for two rooms at a cold water hotel. The proprietor was a friend of his and gave him a discount from the already cheap rates. "Arthur, you old son of a bitch!" he said in a Cajun drawl. "It's been a coon's age. What are you doing with this young pup? You spose to be a loner." After they caught up on what each other had been up to over the last year, we went to our rooms for a quick nap before heading out to Gypsy Joan's, Arthur's favorite bar/brothel in the city.
     

It wasn't all just new to me, it was also intimidating. The girls rushed us as soon as we walked in, grabbed us by the arms and escorted us to a table. Arthur's girl, Veronica, came out from the back and after much discussion it was decided that Esther would be my girl for the night. Things were just a little too happy and fast, and my reluctance was becoming a source of annoyance to everyone.

But after the third beer, I gave in. I paid the "bar fine" to Gypsy Joan, the establishment owner, and then later that night, after Arthur and his girl had already gone to the back, Esther and I negotiated a price and I got a first-timer discount. Many of the customers at Gypsy Joan's paid to stay the night, but the rates were exorbitant. Arthur and I left at about 2 in the morning, an hour later than the cutoff mandated by house rules, but Arthur's VIP status let us slide. We stayed in New Orleans for three days. I have to say, by the time we left, I was really enjoying it.
     
"All right boy, decision time. What'll it be? North to Minot or west to El Paso?" Arthur asked me.
       We were nearing the junction of I-10 going west and I-55 going north. I didn't know it then, (I do now), but he was testing me. Make a decision. It was easy, no need to overthink it. I had been acquiescing to him ever since we'd met in that bar in South Carolina and now he was giving me my turn to call the shot. "Let's go west!" I said with a huge smile of accomplishment. For the first time in my life I'd made a decision. I'd proven everybody who'd ever accused me of being wishy-washy (including myself) wrong.
     
We repeated (mostly) the events of New Orleans in El Paso, and then again out in the Arizona desert near some town called Casa Grande. We did in fact, a couple of times, sleep out under the stars. Then Arthur said we had to get to Slab City,  a place I'd never heard of until he mentioned it at the start of our road trip. He explained it was an abandoned military base out in the California desert that had been taken over by squatters. All the buildings had been torn down and all that was left was the concrete slabs, hence the name Slab City. The girl waiting for him there wasn't a prostitute, but a high school sweetheart he'd known for over thirty years. He told me I should consider moving there myself. "It hits a hundred and twenty degrees in the summer," he said. "But the rent's free. All the snowbirds from up north come down in the winter for the free RV parking. Queenie sells 'em paintings. She doesn't paint worth a shit, but for some reason people think paintings done out in the desert by nomads have extra value."
 
    The concrete sentry booth was still there, covered in multicolored graffiti. "You don't want to step in there," Arthur told me as we drove by. "It's ankle deep in shit." We were heading toward a huge structure way off in the distance that resembled a painted mountain. GOD IS LOVE had been painted across it in letters five feet tall. "Before we go find Queenie, I want you to meet someone," Arthur said. We stopped at the base of the structure where a white-haired man was mixing adobe in a wheel barrow.

 "Leonard!" Arthur bellowed as soon as we got out of the Chevette. 

       "Looks like it's coming right along. How you been?"

       "How're you doing Arthur? Yep, I'm getting it about how I want it."

       "Leonard, this is my traveling companion Dewey. Dewey, this is Leonard, the architect and builder of Salvation Mountain."
     
Leonard held up his dirty hands to let me know we shouldn't shake, so I just said, "Nice to meet you, Leonard." The wind was so strong I doubt that he heard me.

       "Is Queenie still around these parts?" Arthur asked, yelling to be heard over the roar.

       "Oh, yes. Her and a whole bunch have a nice setup going. They've got six cottages built out of scrap. They even put up a wooden fence around it. You can't miss it." Leonard motioned with his hand what direction to go.
       We got back in the car and as we drove looking for Queenie, it dawned on me that this "Slab City" was really some kind of artist colony.

There were burned out hulks of cars and campers that had been decorated with glass, cans, and anything else that could be scrounged up out there and turned into a bizarre work of art. There was even a wall of broken television sets ten feet tall and ten feet wide with the word OBEY stenciled on every screen. There were a few drugged out zombies shuffling around on the verge of heat stroke. Whatever it was that brought these people out here, none of them were a budding Georgia O'Keeffe. They were rebels first, artists second (if artists at all).
   

  Arthur had been talking about Queenie ever since we got on the truck from Greenville to the tobacco farm. So I was kind of looking forward to meeting her myself. My first impression of her was that she was insane. Her dark eyes darted from side to side all the time, she spoke abnormally quickly, and she had a constant nervous laugh. When Arthur introduced us, she didn't even acknowledge me, she went on a verbal attack about how he was supposed to have been here months ago and how inconsiderate it was of him to always make her wait. She may have intended for her nervous laugh every five or six seconds to assure Arthur that she was really all that angry, but it had the opposite effect, escalating the tension between them to the point it seemed a physical confrontation was imminent. Four women gathered around Queenie for support, their sweat-slicked faces egging her on.

       "Why don't we go for a drive?" Arthur suggested. "You, me, and Dewey. Let's go out to the edge of The Slabs where we can talk. I'd like you to meet Dewey here," he said, gesturing to me. "We cut tobacco together back at Grisham's. We're thinking of heading up to Minot later. Maybe you'd like to go with us. Let's go talk about it."
     
We all got in the car, me in the back seat, and drove for about five minutes out to a thicket of Joshua trees and sage brush away from Slab City. It was late afternoon/evening and the sun was setting fast. Maybe that's just some trait of the desert—no gradual sunsets, it's more like a switch turning off. One minute the sun's there, the next it's gone. The thicket provided shade, and had been used by many people before as evidenced by the litter everywhere. I sat off to the side while Arthur told Queenie about our road trip, Arthur sometimes asking me to confirm something he'd just said, and I'd nod, smile and say yes. If Arthur had intended to calm Queenie, it was barely working. After about ten minutes, Queenie stood and pulled a .32 revolver from the waistband of her denim shorts which had been concealed by her billowy blouse.
   

  I jumped up when the gun came out, but Arthur remained seated and calm as if this was all just normal. After a few minutes of trying to get Queenie to put the damn gun away, Arthur stood and held his hand out for it. Queenie shot one time, hitting Arthur in the belly, and he fell backward. Queenie left as calmly as if they'd simply said, see you later and walked back in the direction of Slab City. After she was a safe distance away, I went to Arthur's side. He was bleeding badly, but was able to fish his car keys out of his pocket and told me to bring the car over, which was about thirty yards away from the thicket.
     
 I cranked the engine and it puked out a huge cloud of black smoke and died. It would not restart. I ran back to the thicket, Arthur had removed his shirt and was using it to apply pressure to the wound. He told me he could not get up. "You'll have to go get the paramedics in Niland. It's less than five miles from here. Remember Salvation Mountain? Get back to there, then turn south and look for Beal Road. Follow it to Niland.You'll see the fire station there. Tell them I've been shot."

       I never did find Salvation Mountain, I got lost in the desert. Twice I came across people and asked them to help, they refused, one even attacked me. Sometime late in the night I ended up right back where I started, at the thicket with the Chevette nearby. Inside the thicket, Arthur was still there, a huge amount of blood all around him, his shirt still in place over the wound. I tried to shake him awake—he was dead. I sat there almost until sunrise, helplessly crying like a child as the ants crawled over him.


                               * * *

I've been back in Minnesota for two years now, married and with an infant son, even holding down a job. (Kind of. I'm a surveyor's assistant and the work is irregular. It pays the bills. Kind of.) Even my wife and kid weren't my own decision, I allowed myself to be "guided" into it. Not a day goes by when I don't think of Arthur and how I just left him there in the desert. I've never mentioned him or our road trip to anyone.

That's not surprising considering how I don't even feel like I know any of these people around me—not even my wife and kid. For the last few months the only thoughts in my head are who the hell are these people and why am I here? My wife keeps pestering me about how her family keeps pestering her—why don't I ever say anything, why don't I get a better job, why do I sit up all night alone drinking. It's right here that you would expect me to firmly state that I love my wife and son, but I don't.

They're part of a world that I don't understand and can't seem to function in. But that doesn't mean I don't feel any obligation to them, that's why I'm going to leave about $400 in the bank account for them when I take off here in a few minutes. And certainly someone will discover the car after I abandon it at the Greyhound station. Domestic life ain't for me and I ain't gonna torture myself with it. The least I can do for someone whose dead body I abandoned in the desert is to learn the lessons he taught me. But again—I'm faced with the odious task of making a decision. Where to first?
       I wonder if Esther is still working at Gypsy Joan's.

                             THE END

Hugh Blanton combs stories and poems out of his hair during those moments he can steal away from his employer's loading dock. He has appeared in Dope Fiend Daily, Rye Whiskey Review, The Abyss, and other places. He lives in San Diego, California.