Angst Volume One, Number One Angst is electronically-published by Michael Dennis Shawn Heacock with no assistance from any government organization. The E-Zine appears bi-monthly. Copyright (C) 1994 by the contributors. June/July 1994. Subscription rates: free as of this and next issue. Submission payments: none as of this and next issue. Send all submissions to uh186@freenet.victoria.bc.ca OR an221@freenet.carleton.ca. Introduction Angst, a metaphor on anger and frustration. Dread, hurt, pain, turmoil. Hopefully, this will become our personality, what our poetry and stories will rally around. If not, then I suppose we'll eventually have to come up with a new name, for now let Angst stand. We will let your submissions mold the personality of this small beasty. As you can see, this first issue contains three stories (one regular and two postcard) by moi. This will not become regular, so don't fear that I'll start using this 'zine as a vehicle for my own literary meanderings; we had need of filler for this our first issue, and an idea of the direction we might like to travel, though that will be left up to all of you. Our reader base is at a whopping 85 registered subscribers (I think my first goal is to attract two hundred subscribers). I'll be posting only this, our first, issue to some of the newsgroups around the net to try to generate some more interest. After the freebie introduction, this thing'll only float word of mouth. Let's all make crossies (and tell two people). Submission-wise, this 'zine will concentrate on short stories (less than 5000 words, though I might consider a few serials), postcard stories (less than 500 words; extremely strict on this), and poetry. For the first few issues, this 'zine will not be able to reimburse authors making submissions. Our hope here is that we will gather a bit of a following, enabling us to charge small subscription rates, allowing us to reimburse submitting authors for their efforts; ideally this thing will one day be strictly non-profit, all moneys taken in going straight back to the submitters. Let's rub the lamp and ask our favourite djinn to make everything work out. I'll again delve into the wonderful topic of formats. Three formats exist for this rag. The first is simple text, nothing fancy, no bells and whistles. Next is Word 2.0 for Windows, with many bells and whistles. Colour. Page formatting. Fancy fonts (True Type). Word format will be sent out zipped and UUE encoded. Finally we come to PostScript, which has all the bells and whistles of Word format. Postscript will be sent out as straight text or it can be zipped and UUE encoded. As for sizes, I've noticed that if Angst is 100K in Word format, it will be approximately 80K in Text and 400K in PostScript. Hopefully everyone's mail handlers can handle this. If not, please get in touch with as soon as possible and we'll change your format and get another issue off to you. Your editor, Table of Contents ----------------- Short Stories ------------- Lost Horse Heather MacLeod and Michael Heacock The Key Michael Gibbons PostCard Stories ---------------- Second-Person Car Crash Michael Heacock The Sunday Ritual Michael Heacock Poetry ------ canal in spring E. Russell Smith The man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt Michael McNeilley Not all suicides are fatal Michael McNeilley The Smartest Thing She Ever Did Dan Siemens Virgil Hervey layers Virgil Hervey Lost Horse by Heather MacLeod and Michael Heacock Pen in hand, crisp white sheet lies before me, and I try to write my father a letter. It has been so long, but I swallow hard and start off: Dear Daddy. Far too nice. I try: Dear Dad. No, that is too polite. I think about Dear Father, but that seems too stiff. In a moment of anger I write YOU in huge scrawling letters, then I add "I think you know why I'm writing" and I sign my name. I'll never mail it, so it lies on the floor, next to my chair, a crumpled ball, two others lie with it. Another crisp white sheet stares me down, ninety-six of its siblings lie underneath, eagerly awaiting their turns. I keep working on the letter, the salutation really. I don't know how to begin. YOU is a little impersonal. I scratch the underside of my right breast, my bra is making it itch. I reach up into my shirt and undo the clasp. That's better. The fuzzy inner side of my sweatshirt is ticklish. I turn my attention back to the blank page and try to write my father a letter. I get bored with it after a while, only to return in a few days, twisting and turning greetings and wondering how it is that a child can be raped by her daddy. Daddy. This is the key word; the child calls the father, Daddy. Such a warm, loving, gently-killing word. I hate it. Daddy. I don't know how to electrocute myself. Or maybe I should say that I do, but I don't like the feeling of electricity. When I was young, my brother tricked me into putting a battery in my mouth. I didn't like how it felt, not at all, and that was only a few volts. What's a toaster in the tub going to feel like? My therapist thinks that I should take anti-depressants. I gave her my full attention and then, of course, said no. She pushes; she is very persistent. One of her finest traits. I think that maybe I should tell her this, but I never do. I admire her steady determination toward the drug, but I will do in the end only what I want. I have always done exactly what I wanted, ask my mother, brother, or grandmother. It has been my theme since I was a child. I always said, "I'll do what I want." To which they responded "We know." They act as if it is a terrible thing when, really, it is so honest, so pure, so wonderful. My one small strength and no one could ever be even remotely supportive of it. My father has cancer. The doctors say he has at most one month. My mother and grandmother are very depressed, they are finding it difficult. They can't bear to see him in the hospital like that, all those wires and tubes running through him. My brother is peacekeeping, I don't know how he is feeling; I haven't talked to him in a very long time. I think that maybe I should phone my therapist, tell her that maybe she should give me a prescription for those anti- depressants, and then I'll send them to my mother and grandmother. But, of course, I don't, I wouldn't be able to tell her what I'd done with the pills, she would think I took them, that she had won a small coup. Besides, I am not feeling as sorry for my mother and grandmother as I should be. It is my father's fault and I hate him for it. I am glad that I live over a thousand miles away from my family. At least I don't have to explain why I won't be coming to the hospital today. I really should write my father. But what would it prove. It happened so long ago and he's so near death. Also, why put my mother and grandmother through more than they are already going through. There's the possibility, too, that they might not believe me. They are the only family I will have left. I'm not sure if I need them, but I would like to keep my options open. I rarely speak to my brother anymore, he grew up looking like my father--not like my father, understand. My brother doesn't know about Daddy and doesn't understand me, thinks I'm denying my heritage. I don't explain. Heritage? Makes me laugh. I'm some kind of half-breed. Daddy's Inuit. Mommy's Blackfoot. Maybe my brother is right, maybe I am trying too hard to deny my heritage, to live in the white world. White people don't know who I am, they don't know the difference. They don't care. To them I am just another chug. I wish I could have remembered all about Daddy and what he had done sooner, but life conspired against me. I read somewhere that traumatic events can hide themselves in the sub-conscious, all but forgotten they are buried so deep, but that they can still affect the conscious-level without the trauma ever making an appearance. When I told my therapist this, she agreed and said that it explained my lifelong fascination with death. She's wrong. I'm fascinated with killing myself. There is a difference. Lately I've been spending a lot a time talking with God. Last week I phoned him; I was going to do it collect, but at the last minute I chickened out. I wonder what my phone bill will look like. I phoned the operator and asked for rates, but she acted as if I was crazy. When I was seven I tried death by pussy-willow. Obviously, I failed. It is tragic being a failure, especially something so simple as suicide. I stood outside on a warm summer day, naked; I pushed the willow's silken pellets into my nose--hoping that I would suffocate. I didn't. When I was eight I tried slitting my wrists with a paring knife. I was in the middle of doing the dishes, just pulled it across my wrist. I stood watching the blood, I forgot the other arm. There really wasn't that much oozing from the cut, must not have pressed hard enough. My mother came into the kitchen, caught me, thought it was an accident and bandaged me up most properly. Pulled me onto her lap and we drank hot chocolate. I felt sorry for her. All the knives in my house are dull. I should invest in some razor blades. Good, strong, straight lines. Maybe phone that one-eight- hundred number, order the Ginsu World Class; do the job properly. Anyway, death is merely another living experience. Fuck, sometimes I'm so full of bullshit I amaze even myself. Maybe there's a small hint of truth in the statement. I have always felt that death is but an option, the one choice that is and always will be mine. I've chosen death enough times, but I find that I never end up being dead. Sometimes I will find myself staring at the veins that criss-cross through my wrists and I will find myself thinking of severing them. Life giving as they are. Often times I will think that things, life, living, friends, crap, bullshit, the day-to-day existence is going as well as I can expect; then I will notice myself staring at my wrists. I talk to God at such times. I always initiate the conversation, because during my suicides I am quite unapproachable. I will talk to him aloud, explaining life, its miseries and its joys. I think it is important to be accurate with God; he always knows if you are leaving things out, whether you are making things seem more desperate than they really are. I try to convince him that it will be all right if I die. That I don't mean to shove my life down his throat, I merely want to explain that I've had enough of it all and if he wouldn't mind bringing me home early. He never has none of it. I change tact and discuss karma with him, I tell him that I'd be willing to come back and repeat my life over, that all I need is a short holiday from it all. But I am lying, and he knows it. I don't think he holds much faith in Hindu theology. So finally I am stuck with my veins intact. Then I think about slicing them anyway, just for old time's sake. But the thought of me dialing nine-one-one, spending days in the hospital (maybe even the mental ward), explaining to everyone that my suicide attempt wasn't really a suicide attempt, that it was a. . .rehearsal. I don't think that would fly, especially with my therapist. Like I said, I never end up being dead. Afterwards I think of my brother--my father's son. I can remember one summer when he christened me and my cousins with Indian names. It was all so solemn. My brother was fourteen and I was nine. He was old enough to be taught by the elders, I'd never felt jealous because he'd always come from the teachings showing or telling us something he'd learned. It was as if I was old enough too. When he came to the oldest of the female cousins, he got a wicked look in his eye and said earnestly, "You are known from now on as Eager Beaver." It had taken a few years before I had understood and been able to laugh about it. When he came to me he said, "You are known from now on as Lost Horse." Fitting, I suppose. Would you believe that the strongest drug I have is aspirin and I only have three of those? Until last year I used to take a lot of drugs. I was trying to kill myself by accident. I failed, obviously. Who was it said, "Try, try again"? I am obviously in pain. I can tell because when I'm really hurting my jokes are better. I have, of course, tried eating myself to death. Really, what is the use. Besides, I detest being fat. Maybe I should consider starvation. Hmm. The thing is that it would take so long, so time consuming. Constantly being aware of food. Of course, I am a few pounds above where I'd like to be; starvation might be good for me. Burying myself alive is really out of the question. If my car would start I could plummet to my death or crash into a big rock. My car's pretty wimpy, I'd probably bounce off the guard rail. If things did work out, there's always the chance that I would live and be worse off than I am right now. No, death by car is definitely out. Death by car exhaust. I quit smoking. This would be like taking it up one last final time. Why ruin a perfect record? It stinks too much anyhow. Too bad I don't have a gas stove, not much I can do with an electric. I can't see how I could burn myself to death using stove elements; besides, too painful. I hate being alone. I've been alone for too long already. Sometimes I think if I had someone, everything would be all right. Tomorrow I will do some running around, odds and ends, then I will pack up my belongings, get on a plane and fly away. Fly away. Maybe the plane will crash. I can almost see it now. I look out the tiny window in time to see the wing shear off. I smile and calmly check the In Case Of Emergency card in the seat pocket in front of me. I read that an inflatable life vest is stored beneath my seat. I laugh. Small comfort as we take the 30 000 foot, fiery plunge toward earth. No. I will not fly away tomorrow. I'd probably live. I can imagine all the nightmares that would plague me. My therapist has her hands full dealing with all my bullshit now, I wouldn't want to overload her, force a nervous breakdown. Then what would I do. I love my therapist. She is my only friend. What if I went to a big city, took a dive off a skyscraper. Like the World Trade Center in New York. Again, I'd have to fly. Nope, out of the question. I live in a mobile home, jumping from the roof wouldn't do me much damage. Maybe if I landed on my head. I think that I'd like to try sky diving. With parachuting, the choice is so laid out before you, pull the chord; don't pull the chord. Either way the view's great. I should probably write my father. I wonder if it's possible to die from a paper cut. Ugh. It would probably be a real shivery feeling, like listening to someone scrape their fingernails across a blackboard. That time I phoned God, I talked to him about my father. I wanted to make sure there would be no confusion. I didn't want Daddy slipping through the pearly gates because of some divine screw-up. God spoke to me of forgiveness, but I was having none of it. I started shouting at him; I called him "a bastard for creating my father, a bastard for leaving me." God drew a blank and I didn't think to explain; I was in such a kerfuffle. If God hadn't left me, would Daddy have slid into my bed all those nights? It's nice to scream at God, let's him know that he is not perfect, that everything he does is not always perfect. I forgive God. I forgive him for leaving me. Is God against suicide? Is it a sin? I don't want God to be angry or upset if I die. I want to die in peace, I want to die. I want to die. I want to die. I want to die. I want to die. I want to die. I want to die. If he is mad at me, maybe I'll tell him a funny story--cheer him up. There's one that always makes me laugh whenever I think of it. Back when I turned eighteen, my brother took me drinking--finally legal. Two in the morning, the bars closed, and both of us pissed and wobbly, we slowly made our way home. At the front stoop my brother misstepped, broke the heel off his cowboy boot, and fell into the dust. He picked himself up, looked at the broken heel, and sang to me, "You picked a fine time to leave me loose heel." God is omniscient, though; he probably already knows the story and wouldn't laugh as I'd expect him to. I don't think hanging by the neck until dead dead dead is an option. I'm not especially keen on rope burn and I heard on TV that a person's bowels will empty everywhere. Mother's are always telling their children to wear clean underwear in case they get in some kind of accident. Hanging causes a helluva lot more mess than the basic skid mark; and it usually has to be done on purpose. I would imagine it being somewhat hard to hang yourself by accident. The letter: Dear Daddy, God tells me that I should forgive you. I can't. Your Daughter I'll wait until tomorrow, then decide whether I mail it or not. I don't like to be alone. I like to think that there will come a time when someone shall lie down with me and let me feel safe; just for a moment. Just one moment of feeling safe--I could have a nap in the afternoon sun. A small, gentle, peaceful sleep. I would like to feel safe. I hear that drowning is a peaceful way to go--very pleasant. I wonder, if I died would I feel safe? Next time I talk to God, maybe I'll ask. canal in spring by E. Russell Smith empty husks lie deep at the feeder as the last snow melts; sunflower seed junkies slate-coloured prodigals hungry now between seasons after seven months of charity peck through the leavings for the bits they wasted in winter a squall at dawn draws snow across April like a coroner's sheet an east wind hides broken floes in blind bays of the waterway carnival rubbish fouls the mud and shabby mallards forage till the flushing on one bank black ice festers on the other sunchicks blister like new paint on undried wood old houses look at new across the half-full ditch; a line defines the form on either side -- under tension, like a green stick bends, until it breaks Second-Person Car Crash by Michael Heacock You don't know how to feel. Strange thoughts keep running through your brain. It might have been your girlfriend. It might have been you two weeks ago when you took the risk and drove home from the SUB Pub loaded on twelve ounces of alcohol. You might have killed your friends that night, or the driver of the car you hit. Though little damage was caused and no one was hurt, it still eats at you--it caused you to reevaluate your drinking habits. This new situation hardens whatever resolve you'd set yourself to. You're at home, been home for an hour. You feel sober in spite of the three pitchers of draught. When you arrived at the house there was a message waiting; your girlfriend, in Vancouver for the weekend, needed you to call her immediately. Her message was shaky and scared. You didn't understand at the time, but you wanted to hear her voice, you miss her, you called. Your best friend has been killed in an auto accident. Your other three friends--passengers--are all physically okay, minor bumps and bruises. The driver was drunk, his jeep rolled; your friend was killed instantly. You're not sure whether to feel relief that he went quickly, bearing little pain, or to feel angry because he was denied a fighting chance, a chance at life. Your other friend, the driver, you feel a certain amount of remorse for him too; his life has become shit, lifelong guilt and a prison term for vehicular manslaughter. It wasn't entirely the driver's fault, the passenger's should have never gotten into the vehicle. You curse yourself for trying to find fault, for rationalizing a tragedy. These are your friends. It all comes flooding back again and you begin choking on tears, anger, and anguish. The world will be worse off not having your best friend around, everyone will be worse off. Little comfort thinking that at least you got to know him, that you were a lucky one. Small comforts, but it will have to be enough, you guess. by Virgil Hervey the clock face is about two inches from my nose the second hand sounds like my cat scratching at my door wanting to be fed my head and my dick feel about the same throbbing, aching for one pudpulling moment i can't decide whether to do something about this pisshardon or not but doors are slamming throughout the house and it really is the cat she is relentless i start to drag my ass out of bed but i can't stand the prospect... the alarm, the alarm, oh the fucking alarm i grab the clock and smash it against the wall electric clock bowels separate from the plastic casing but the fucker keeps ringing my head hurts, my back aches maybe i'm sick i didn't go to work yesterday doubt i can pull that off again, today heat's coming up -- steam in the valves radiator's banging shit, it ain't even light out and i hear the paper boy smack of the "times" as it hits the side of the house garbage trucks, lawn king there's a tightness in my chest don't know if it's a heart attack or too much oregano on the pizza last night, maybe it's stress maybe anxiety last night a woman with a foreign accent called it was very late she wanted to know if i was awake at least i think she called or was it a dream? something real did happen during the night don't know where don't know what it was but it happened without me and i'm sad that i missed it i'm writing my life down on toilet paper flushing it in this place i don't need a vacation i need a bullet in the head the noise outside is unbearable i open the window and throw the clock at jerk with the leaf blower he yells up to me "you crazy motherfucker, i ought to call the cops!" i doze, in my dream i smile, amused there's a fat lady in a lawn chair flower print dress, string of pearls big sun hat, lots of lipstick her handbag is next to the chair it's got wheels it tries to get away she reins it in on a leash like an errant pup and i wonder how my mind could paint this with such vivid detail have i been here before? The man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt by Michael McNeilley The man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt has large, soft hands. The backs of his hands are covered with tattoos of stars, the moon, planets. Around his fingers are tattoos of rings. The dad of the man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt once accused him of gilding the lily. "Dad," he said, "man, that's entirely silly, to think of a butt in terms of a lily." Then he thought on it some more. When the man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt crosses the street, cars stop for him. Men who know of his claim to fame come up to him and ask to shake his hand. (That evening he sat there for hours, carefully inking the lines of most intricate butterflies, ribbons and flowers, smoothing and stretching the skin, as though bringing up something deep from within, articulating his canvas as no painter thinks to do.) If the man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt talks to you, don't listen. He's a man who can convince a cat to fly. You'll find yourself listening more than hearing, and discover later you did whatever he told you (without remembering why) and there on your arm you'll find a red and blue filigreed heart, with your ex-lover's name wrapped around on a beautiful ribbon, never to come off, because tattoos are forever and you can't turn back time. The man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt stands all but naked on an L.A. cliff at dawn, looking out across the city. His tennis shoes are laced through to the very top eye. Across his own butt is a tattoo of his own hand. Not all suicides are fatal by Michael McNeilley "The ward is against me," jokes Crazy Dave, unable to change the channel on the Lawrence Welk ward TV. "The ward is not against you" answers the serious psychologist. Dave had been in the ward before, plenty of times, always on the borderline. Drugs brought him close to the edge. Love pushed him over. Crazy Dave got back inside trying to off himself with a single-edge razor blade -- woke up on a mattress soaked with blood, clothing clotted, stinking, Morrison still singing "The End" over and over on the turntable. Crazy Dave gave up his life, threw out his art, and part of his life came back, unwanted but his art didn't. She would never hear him, never did hear him, and they could never understand, never understand things they would not see, and with his art gone, Crazy Dave couldn't see those things himself. The art bled out of Crazy Dave, and what was left of his long hair turned grey, and 20 years later now he plays guitar in the one-man ward band, takes requests, and knows the ward is not against him. The Key by Michael Gibbons The two young men walked quickly across the quadrangle of the small New England college. Their boots crunched the frozen snow. It was bitterly cold with a sharp north wind that frosted the glasses of the taller one so that he had to peer from under the hood of his wool coat and over the top of his glasses to follow the path. Yet as they neared their destination their gait became slower and more deliberate. The shorter one was bundled in a dark blue ski parka, a blue woolen hat pulled down over his ears and a red woolen scarf wrapped around most of his face. As they neared the dormitory, the light from one of the windows revealed his pale blue eyes, gazing apprehensively up at a second-floor room. On the steps outside the doorway the two kicked off the snow that had stuck to the bottom of their boots. "Don't worry about a thing, Sean," the shorter one said, as he opened the door, pulled his hat off and unwrapped the scarf from his face, revealing a square thick head, crew-cut brown hair, a fairly handsome face that contrasted the lean, angular face of his taller friend, whose black horn rim glasses made him look the more studious of the two. "I'll handle everything . . . Did you bring the money?" "I know I don't have anything to worry about because I don't fucking need it," Sean said, wiping his frosted glasses with a handkerchief he got from his pants pocket. "It's just that it's twenty-five dollars. I can't really afford it, Larry. It's a week's worth of food money." "But you're gonna get fifty dollars this week from the papers you're writing for Billy and Mac. Don't forget it's finals in two weeks. After seeing that Psych paper you wrote for Hitch, half the football team will be knocking on your door. You could probably make a few hundred dollars the next two weeks." "I know that. But writing papers for dumb jocks is a lot easier than what you've got in mind. And a lot less dangerous." "I'll give him the fifty bucks now," Larry said, "and you can give me twenty-five next week. How's that?" "Okay." The two walked up the concrete stairway, casting long echoes deep into the building with each step. They paused outside the door marked 225, and looked at each other nervously. Larry knocked twice as prearranged. The door opened quietly and a pale face with the receding blonde hair of an older graduate student peered through the opening. "Shhh! My roommate's sleeping," the graduate student said, in a loud whisper. He let Sean and Larry in and then walked over to the bedroom door of the two-room suite and closed it. "We can talk now," the grad student said. "But keep it down. I don't want to wake my roomie." He switched off the ceiling light leaving only his desk lamp to illuminate the crowded, small study room, then got comfortable in his swivel desk chair. Dressed in white tee shirt and beltless khaki pants, he stretched back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head and placed his stockinged feet on the desk. Sean half-sat on the sleeping roommate's desk, unimpressed with the arrogance of the young man now checking him out most carefully. Sean looked at his huge shadow being cast against the wall and ceiling by the solitary light. Larry sat uncomfortably in a wooden chair that looked incapable of giving comfort. "Have you met Sean?" asked Larry, breaking the uneasy tension. "He's my partner and you can trust him. Sean this is Gil." "Hi, Sean, a pleasure," Gil said, without attempting to get up and shake hands. "Gil," Sean said, imitating Gil's harsh whisper, and looking at his pale face in the gray shadow. He already disliked the cocky grad student. Through some innate sense, he found he could quickly pick up on personality types; seldom did he find himself wrong. He wanted the business taken care of as quickly as possible. "You got the money, guys?" the grad student whispered. "Sorry I can't offer you a beer." Thank God, thought Sean, thinking of numerous insults he might heap on the weasel if they were to sit around and drink a few beers. "Yeah." Larry pulled five tens from his pocket and placed them on Gil's desk. Gil leaned forward took the money and opened his desk's center drawer. He took out a small tin box, opened it and handed the shiny, worn key to Larry. "There it is in all it's glory," Gil said, smugly. "Test it tomorrow night and if you have any problems let me know as soon as possible. I'm graduating in two weeks and then I'm out of here. History. So you'll have to settle any problems before I leave." * * * Larry and Sean walked solemnly back to their dorm. Their mood was mostly a reflection of Sean's funk. They quickly stopped at the food truck for hot-dogs and coffee. The Methodist Church's bell across the street peeled two a.m. "I didn't like that bastard," Sean said. "I didn't either. But we probably won't be dealing with him again. Fingers crossed." They entered the dorm and went to Larry's single room, took off their coats and boots and settled down at the desk to eat and plan for the next night. Larry placed the key prominently on top of his desk and starred hungrily at it as he ate. Larry was elated, but in deference to Sean's moodiness, played down his good feelings. "Cheer up, Sean, the key's ours. We did it." "You got any beer?" Sean asked. "Hahahaaa," Larry laughed, got up and walked toward the room's only window, opened it, and grabbed a six-pack from the sill. "Oh shit, it's frozen," he said, placing the six-pack of Rheingold on the radiator behind his bed and closing the window. "It's a good thing you asked for a beer. I'd forgotten about it. The bottles would have been cracked in a few more hours. Hate to waste beer. Even if it's the cheap shit." "Piss, you mean," Sean said. They both laughed. Then the radiator started to clang and cough as it did every night when the heat was turned off. Sean said, "The heat's going off. It'll take forever for the beer to thaw. I'll run hot water over them in the bathroom. That ought to do it." Sean got up and left the room. Larry finished his hot dog and fingered the bronze Yale key with the delicacy one would handle a precious gem. The key to his success was now in his pudgy hands. He knew he could graduate with probably a C-average, but he would have to study his ass off and not much time would be left over for the social life, the wild frat parties, that he loved. And the money he would make with the key would allow him to chase the most desired of the coeds. But he was a little concerned about Sean. He knew Sean didn't really need the key but he did need the cash. He was sure Sean would never tell anybody about the key. He listened for his friend's returning footsteps. "Dum di daaa. I've done it. Where's the church key?" Larry opened a desk drawer, pulled out the opener and flipped it to Sean, who opened two bottles, handed one to Larry and sat down on the bed with the other. "Gil told me he made two thousand dollars in the two years he had it," Larry said, absently fingering the shiny brass key. "He told me he bought it from another grad student, the one who supposedly made it by copying a master key from a janitor in the Chem building. How he got the key from the janitor is still a mystery. Whether or not he bribed the janitor, nobody knows." Sean pulled his room key out of his coat pocket, took the key out of Larry's hand and placed them together. "Let me see your key," he said. "I've already compared them," Larry said. "Give me the two keys." He took his key and placed it on top of Sean's. "You see the difference between our room keys," he said holding them in front of his desk lamp. "Your key has one higher tooth . . . here . . .you see?" Sean leaned over Larry's shoulder and looked at the keys. "Ya. I see it. So all the keys from this dorm would almost be the same. One higher or lower tooth, here or there, would be the only difference." "But you see with the master," Larry went on, "all the teeth, except for the two at the front and the three at the back are gone." "Ah, huh." Sean paused in thought. "So we have to decide . . . wait a minute. We could make as many masters as we wanted by filing down the all the middle teeth of copies of our own keys." "You got it. But do we want to? The more keys, the more problems. The fewer who know, the better." "Well, we better make at least one copy. You never know what will happen when you give it to your stupid frat brothers. That bozo Clef. He could really fuck it all up." "Don't worry about them," Larry said. "I'll see that they don't fuck it up. They know that it's the only way that most of them will ever graduate." "But if they're not smart enough to graduate from this college, which isn't very difficult, are they smart enough not to screw up with the key?" "Sean, it might not be hard for you, but everyone isn't as smart as you. You hardly even study and you've been on the Dean's List for the last . . ." "Four semesters." They finished the beer in silence and then made plans to go out the next night at nine. Sean returned to his room and went to bed but he couldn't fall asleep. He tossed and turned and finally gave up, put on his bathrobe, lit a cigarette, and watched the cold winter sunrise beam into his room. I don't need this, he thought. But then again it's the caper that fills my need. Something interesting to do. Some excitement to alleviate the wretched boredom of this institution. This college is a fucking joke. If my parents had more money I could have gone to Harvard, or at least Brown, some place that would have been challenging. But I do like the existentialism of it all. To cheat and not have to cheat. To consciously do what others would not approve of. To do the wrong thing and enjoy it. The same reason for writing the history and government papers for Larry's dumb friends. For that and the extra cash which makes this desolate existence a little more comfortable. Get to take a girl to the movies and out for a few beers after. Not much a young man can do with a five-dollar-a-week allowance from home. And, of course, it's such a big thing for Larry and it puts him in big with the jock fraternity and his own fraternity. He'll be the big shot that he wants to be, and I'll be his intellectual front man. What a team. The short high school football player, not good enough to make the college varsity, and his coolly reserved friend. Seven a.m. and finally blissful sleep came. * * * They met at nine the next night in Larry's room. Sean entered the room and was a little surprised to find Larry, head leaning on right elbow, in fake study pose. "Studying for an exam," Sean guffawed. "Shhh! Wait a minute," Larry replied, not looking up. "Got any beer?" "No drinking tonight. We don't want to screw this up." "Doesn't look like you got much sleep last night, either," Sean said. "I missed three classes today," Larry said, intently studying a rough sketch he had made of a floor plan, and talking to himself in a quiet whisper. "I didn't bother going at all. But this escapade is more fun than listening to Prof Ditmar's lecture on why the Russians beat us into space. Well anyway, Larry, I slept for most of the day so I'm well rested. What's the battle plan for tonight?" Sean walked toward the window. "History is the most important subject of all," Larry said, looking up from his desk at Sean. "History exams will be the biggest prizes. Adams Hall is our first target." "Yah, all you dumb bastards are history majors," Sean said, smiling. "What we've got to find out is the times the night janitor punches into those little things . . . you know . . . those thingamajigs on the wall by the fire extinguishers on each floor." "I know what you mean," Sean said. "The janitors stick some kind of key in them periodically. They're called time clocks. Interesting expression isn't it?" "What?" said Larry. "Time clocks. Aren't all clocks, time clocks?" "That's them," Larry replied. "Well, Gil told me it was once an hour on the hour from eight o'clock until two in the morning in most buildings, but he never went into Adams. I've got a copy of the schedule from Gil for all the other buildings that we need, although we'll have to check them at least once to make sure." "Jesus, Larry, you're a fucking genius at scheming. If you applied yourself to studying with as much gusto as you're putting into this caper you'd get straight A's." "But why not put some adventure into our lives," Larry responded, lying with a false bravado. "Bullshit. Now you're stealing my lines," Sean said. "You need this much more than I do, and you know it." "Cut it out, Sean. I still got some studying to do." "Larry, why do you suppose people always get such a big charge out of doing what they believe is wrong? Am I the only person on earth that gets a charge out of being a bad guy?" "It's just because your a Catholic. You need something to confess to Father Cronin, don't you? You don't want Father Cronin to think you're some kind of a saint. But you better not tell that pervert a fucking thing about this." "Me? Go to confession? You're getting a little edgy, Larry. I haven't been to confession since eighth grade. For me, this caper is the most artistic, most existential approach to scholastics that I've ever thought of, excuse me, that we've ever thought of. We should write a fucking thesis on alternate ways to make it through college. We'd get an A-plus. They'd give us our degrees. Summa Cum Laude. After all, what is college really about? Creative learning. This is intelligence doing it's best work." "What are you talking about?" Larry replied. "We're not the first guys in the world to do this." "You're right. But I think that if this institution is really interested in higher learning, we should be able to walk into the Dean's Office, lay the plan on his desk and walk out with degrees." "You forgot one important thing," Larry said. "Make that three things. Number one: we, or I, make that, don't want to study; I want to party. Right? Number two: what else are we going to do? We get our degrees and then what do we do? Go to fuckin' work? We're too young to go to work. Number three: we'd get arrested, kicked out of school, black marks on our records for life." "We'll get arrested, kicked out of school, and have black marks on our records if we get caught stealing history exams so you're dumb brothers can graduate." "We're not going to get caught, Sean. Get those negative thoughts out of your head. We can't have any negative thoughts when we go into Adams." "I'll try my best." Sean smiled impishly. Larry was silent for several moments before he spoke again: "You know Gil said that this key would open every door to every building on this campus, except those built after nineteen sixty, which rules out Science and Tech, and the new girls' dorms on the hill. That's it. We can even get into the administration building if we want." The walk to Adams Hall took only ten minutes. They walked quickly and confidently in the bitter cold night. The campus walkways were nearly deserted. The light from the huge library windows illuminated the bundled pair as they walked past. "Look. You can see Roy inside putting the make on . . .Can you see who it is?" "Naw," said Sean. "But it does look cozy and warm in there." "The library's only good for one thing." "I think it's just as lonely in there trying to make it with some chick as it is outside in this cold." They approached Adams Hall, scraped the snow from the bottoms of their sneakers, the footwear they had decided upon as best for the cat-walking required, and walked up to the front door which should be locked by now. It was ten-forty-five by the library clock. Larry shook the door handle. "Good, it's locked. Well here goes nothing." He placed the master key into the lock and turned it. They heard the correct clicking sound and looked at each other. The door unlocked. "Smooth as butter," Sean said, smiling. "But my feet are freezing in these sneakers." As soon as they entered the building Larry pulled an old tee shirt out of his coat pocket. "Let's wipe clean the bottom of our sneakers," Larry whispered as softly as he could and still be heard by Sean. "We don't want to leave a trail through the corridor." "Jesus, Larry, is there anything you don't think of?" "Shhh! Keep it down. I thought it would be a good idea. The janitor must polish the floors at night. They're always slippery when I come to my eight o'clock class." "Which can't be very often," Sean whispered. "Shhh!" They had just finished cleaning their sneakers. Larry had put the tee shirt back in his pocket and they were standing just a few feet inside the front door when they heard the door opening behind them. They jumped. They were both startled by the sight of a grad student entering the building and they nervously exchanged mumbled hellos. Had they forgotten to lock the door behind them? To their relief they saw the grad student putting his key back in his pocket. He fortunately appeared preoccupied and hardly gave them a glance even though he returned their greeting with his own mumble before disappearing into the first floor corridor. "I guess we'll have to get used to these surprises," Sean sighed. "If a janitor or grad student happens upon us, we'll have to pretend we're grad students. We'll have to exhibit the appropriate air of superiority that obviously distinguishes a grad student from a mere undergrad." Larry said, "But the janitors can't possibly know all the grad students, can they?" "If anybody asks, and I don't think they will, we could say we're Gov grads over for a little late hour work in the library. The grad students have keys to get in, don't they? The one who came in just after us obviously did." "Shhh! I hear somebody," Larry continued in a whisper. "It might be the janitor. Let's hide in the bathroom down the hall." They walked quickly down the first-floor hall to the bathroom, went inside, turned the light off and held their breath as the footsteps clunked and clacked toward them with deliberate purpose. "Do you think it's the janitor?" Sean whispered, nervously. "Shhhhhh!" The footsteps stopped. Their hearts thumped wildly. Sweat rose on their foreheads. They heard a metallic clicking noise; then a long silence before the footsteps retreated slowly away. Larry took a flashlight from his coat pocket, turned it on and looked at his watch. "Eleven o'clock," he whispered. "He was right on time, if that was the janitor." "It had to be," Sean whispered back. "The sound of the key. He was clocking in on the hour. It must be the same as the other halls Gil mentioned. What do we do now?" "Mac Hugh's office is on the second floor just down the hallway from the stairs on the left," he replied. "We'll test run his office. The janitor won't be back until midnight. Let's go." The two tiptoed like frightened cats, Larry in front of Sean, out of the bathroom, up the stairs and along the corridor wall until they reached Mac Hugh's office, room 207. They paused in front of the heavy-looking wooden door and looked around before Larry slid the master key in the lock and opened the door. Larry had been in Mac Hugh's office many times to case it in anticipation of getting the key, even asking the seated professor what his grade was so he could see where he kept his grade book. He knew the office as well as his own dorm room. They entered and Sean closed the door quietly behind them. Larry flashed his light to the professor's cluttered old oak desk. "His grade book should be in here," he said, carefully pulling out the top right drawer. "Yup. Here it is . . . Good . . . Look. His grades are entered in pencil. Phew! I'm set in this class." "Anything else?" Sean asked. "Exams. They should be in this cabinet." "Isn't it locked" "It wasn't the last time I was in here. Some of the drawers were half out. If it's locked, I know his keys are in his middle drawer. I've seen them." While Sean held his breath, Larry pulled at the top drawer of the cabinet as slowly and quietly as possible. It slid open. "Here they are," he said, smiling nervously as he ran his fingers through the stack of exam papers. "I wonder why the cabinet isn't locked," Sean said, whispering a little louder than before. "Why?" Larry said, softly. "I don't think it's ever occurred to Mac Hugh that anyone could, or would, even think of rifling an exam from his office." "Let's get out of here," Sean said. "I'm getting the creeps." On the way back to the dorm, Sean had a sudden thought. "You know what?" he said. "What?" "We forgot to turn the bathroom light back on." "I don't think it's a big deal," Larry said. "Anyone who went in there might turn the light off without thinking. I don't think we have anything to worry about." And so went each night for the next week. Seven test runs to the Chemistry building, to Botany, Government, Economics, English, back to Chem and finally back to Adams. Everything went according to plan with no hitches. They had been in the offices of each of Larry's five professors for that semester. Sean, reluctantly, agreed to go to the offices of two of his Professors. In all seven cases, the grade books were easily located, but in only two offices were exams found. In every hall the routine of the janitors was the same. Hourly, on the hour, clock ins. The only disagreement between the pair was which was the best time to sneak in to the different offices. Larry was in favor of early forays, between ten and eleven o'clock. Sean favored after midnight. Larry's argument for the earlier time was that there were more grad students in the building then and the two of them would not stand out when entering the building or walking down the corridors. They wouldn't have to sneak around like alley cats afraid of making too much noise. Sean favored the later time because nobody but the janitor would normally be in the buildings after midnight, and most likely he would be sleeping in some basement closet, waking up only for his hourly rounds. And if they somehow screwed up, if one of the professors suspected tampering, there would be no witnesses to identify them. No one could say that they thought they saw two guys, a tall one and a shorter one, who they didn't think belonged in the building. So they agreed to vary the times of entry during the test runs to between the hours of ten and two p.m. For Sean, the absurdity of tampering with grade books was realized when, after Larry had upped his exam results by one grade three different times, he adamantly insisted that Sean do at least one himself. Standing terrified in the office of his analytical chemistry professor, Larry trained the flashlight on the blue exam book while Sean turned the pages. He thought he had aced the exam, but one problem had bothered him. He reluctantly changed the final equation to that problem, more to bond with Larry (blood brothers in crime; to make them equally responsible in all aspects of the caper, which seemed so important to Larry) than because he thought the equation was wrong. When he got the results two days later, he got an A-minus instead of an A. The only mistake was the equation he had changed. Stupid, he said to himself, when he learned the result. * * * One week later, on the eve of Professor Mac Hugh's final in Ancient Civilizations, Larry and Sean were in Larry's room anxiously watching his clock tick-tock away the time until five to eleven, the agreed upon departure time, when they would steal their first exam. Sean was not at all comfortable because the exam was not for him, but was for Larry and nineteen of his fraternity brothers. What if they screwed up? Got caught cheating? He would be implicated and thrown out of school. He might be bored with school, but he didn't want to suffer the disgrace of expulsion. Yes, the thrill of the caper was gone for him, although he hadn't told Larry. He knew Larry would be very upset if he did; it meant too much to him. Sean still felt stupid about the one exam he did change. Two nights later, he had the chance to change the grade book of his physics professor. He stood there dumbly over the grade book. He didn't make a change even though the grades were entered in pencil. He looked at all the grades and chuckled when he discovered that his were the highest in the class. What to change? The thrill of cheating was gone. There was a knock on the door. "Come in," Larry said. In walked Tom Fortier, one of Larry's frat brothers, average height, taller than Larry, but a tad shorter than Sean. He was a nervous, fidgety, senior who couldn't sit still for more than a couple of minutes. His face was dark and round, his hair dark and short, and he wore thick, horn rim glasses. "Hi, guys," he said, in husky baritone. "All ready to go?" "Are you going, too?" Sean asked, incredulously. "No," Larry answered. "Relax, Sean. When we get the exam we're giving it to Tom and he'll give it to the brothers." "Three's a crowd, Sh, Sh, Sean," Tom stuttered. "I, I, I'm not going." "Relax, Sean," Larry repeated. "It's your stupid brothers I'm worried about, Larry," Sean said, tapping a cigarette on his lighter and then lighting it. "Jesus, you're jumpy tonight," Larry said. His look was a worried one. "You'd be jumpy if you were in my shoes," he said. "I've got everything to lose and nothing to gain." "You know the only reason we're not getting any money is because it's for my brothers. Everybody else pays. Okay." "Yes, boss." "When are you going?" Tom asked, timing his question to end the squabble. "We're leaving in five minutes," Larry said. "It's ten to eleven now. Ten minutes to Adams. We want to get there at five after, just after the janitor has done his thing, and be out by twenty past, if all goes right." "Knock on your head, Larry," Sean said, and all three shared nervous laughter. "What do you want me to do?" Tom asked Larry. "You wait here until we get back. Better still go buy a six-pack and then wait here. And save us some beer." Larry gave Tom his room key and all three left. They parted outside the dorm as Tom turned away toward the bar across the street. "Good luck, guys," he said. "We'll meet you back in the room at eleven-thirty, or a little later," Larry said. It was a clear and starry night, but without the bitter cold that was typical of northern New England in late January. The winter thaw had melted what snow remained on the walkways. As they walked along the familiar path to Adams Hall, Sean mentioned how they wouldn't have to worry about tracking in the snow's moisture. They walked past the library just as the clock struck eleven. Closing time. Only two students could be seen through the huge window. Then past the administration building to Adams Hall. They entered, tiptoed up to the second floor and gingerly walked along the lighted hallway toward Mac Hugh's office. They hadn't heard a soul. It was deathly quiet. Larry slowly inserted the master key and opened the door. They entered quickly and closed the door, which automatically locked behind them. The office was completely dark except for a crack of hallway light under the door. Larry turned on his flashlight, walked past the desk to the wall cabinet, opened it, found a stack of exam papers with the flashlight and took them out. Sean sat in Mac Hugh's chair, a hard oak swivel chair, nervously tapping his sneakered feet, craving a cigarette, while Larry put the pile of exams on the desk. He fingered through the stack, mumbling to himself. Sean thought it was taking forever for Larry to locate the final, but they had been in the office less than three minutes. "Here it is. Nope . . . this must be it. Yup, here it is." Larry was whispering to himself. Sean couldn't help but smile as he watched Larry intent on his mission. He pulled a copy of the exam from the stack and handed it to Sean. "You want my fingerprints on it, too," Sean whispered, smiling. Larry put his finger to his lips but didn't say anything. He picked up the stack of exams and turned quickly to return them to the cabinet. He turned too quickly and slammed his right foot in the wastepaper basket next to the desk, knocking it across the office. It sounded as if a bomb had exploded. Sean nearly jumped out of the chair. They both froze. Larry managed to hold on to the exams. He put the flashlight out. They didn't dare move a muscle. Their hearts were pounding out of their chests. Their breathing was audibly shallow and rapid. Perspiration rolled off their foreheads. Their hands were clammy. They heard a door open from down the hall and then the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps coming toward Mac Hugh's office. The footsteps paused near the office door for what seemed like an eternity. Sean thought his breathing was as loud as a cheering football crowd. Larry felt the skin tightening around his mouth and nose. Sean screamed in panic to himself. The footsteps resumed, moving away. They breathed a sigh of relief and looked at each other, although it was too dark in the office for them to see anything. Then they heard the footsteps again, moving faster, returning from the far end of the corridor and again pausing in front of the office door before walking quickly away. * * * "You stupid fucking bastards," Larry yelled at Tom. They were in Sean's room. Sean sat at his desk, smoking and staring out the window. "But, but, Larry, I, I told them to be sure that each one had diff, diff, different answers. "Every fucking one got a B, with the same, identical wrong answers. How stupid can you be? You've fucked the whole thing up." "It, it wasn't my fault," Tom pleaded. "You went over the exam with them the night before." "I, I told them to make sure . . . " "That's it," Sean said, still staring out the window and puffing on his cigarette. "I'm out. Two close calls is two too many." "What did Mac Hugh say?" Larry asked. "He, he, he said since people had obviously cheated, the exam would have to be given again. He said he was going to talk to everyone who got the identical result." Larry received a B-plus. "Shit," he mumbled to himself. "We have to get rid of the key, Larry," Sean said, turning his head to look at him. "Mac Hugh will know that someone had to have broken in to his office and stolen the exam." "But we didn't break in," Larry said. "It's only a question of semantics," Sean said. "And time. Sooner or later . . . We have to get out now. Today. At least, Mac Hugh won't talk to you because you got a B-plus." "Sor, sor, sorry, guys," Tom stammered. "You were right, Sean," Larry said. "You said they'd fuck it up." "I'm not gonna say, 'I told you so,' Larry, but it's all over for me. We'd have gotten caught sometime. Not you and me, but someone we sold an exam to would have." "Shit," Larry said again, this time much louder. "What will I do now?" "Start to study," Sean said. "I'll write your papers for you. You'll make it." "I, I, I'm really, fu, fuck, fucking sor, sorry about it," Tom said. * * * That evening Sean walked into Larry's room. "What happened at class today?" Sean asked. "Get this. Mac Hugh talked to everyone in the class, not just my stupid fucking frat brothers with the identical scores. He told me that I was the one he suspected of stealing the exam." "Christ almighty." "How did he figure it out, Sean? So soon?" "He's a wily bastard. When he thought about it for awhile, he must've figured it was all those visits you made to his office, for one pretext or another. You never went to his office all year, then all of a sudden you start going there four times a week. He must be guessing though. I wouldn't sweat it, Larry. How could he know for sure who it was? There's no evidence." "Wouldn't sweat it. Shit, he scared the living shit out me," Larry said. "All the time I was standing next to his desk, and he was accusing me, I had my hand in my pocket fingering the goddamn key." "He can't prove anything." "Mac Hugh said that he was sure someone had 'surreptitiously,' as he put it, gotten into his office. Someone who had to have a key since there was no sign of break and enter." "What did you say to that?" "Nothing. What could I say?" Larry paused. "He said one of his graduate students, who was working very late, heard some noise in his office the week before the exam." "Now we know the owner of those goddamn footsteps. But remember: no one saw us. By the time we left the building it was well after midnight. There wasn't a soul there." Larry said with a little more confidence, "You're right, Sean, he knows, but he can't prove a fucking thing." "Shit, Larry, we didn't use gloves. What if they dust the place?" "The first thing we've got to do is get rid of the fucking key." Sean said, "Let's get a six-pack first." * * * Blueberry Creek criss-crossed the campus several times as it ran toward the bay and out to sea. Several small bridges crossed the creek, but the most famous was the Kissing Bridge. After drinking three beers each, Sean and Larry walked erratically toward the Kissing Bridge, where lovers gathered at sunset and after dark to make out. Even on cold winter evenings like this evening there were couples on the bridge. Sean had suggested this bridge as a symbolic place to, "Kiss the key good-bye." When they reached the bridge, a few couples, who were leaning over the rail, turned and looked their way. They heard giggles. Larry nudged Sean. "They must think we're queers." "C'mon Larry. They might just be embarrassed. Afraid we've come to look." "Have you ever brought a girl here?" Larry asked. "Once," Sean said. "It's like being in a meat market. Everyone checking out everyone else. Weird. How could anyone feel comfortable here, unless you're an exhibitionist." "A what . . . ?" "Showoff." "Oh. I came here once with Carol. She hated it, so we left." "Well, shall we get on with it." They stood in the center of the bridge. Larry pulled the key out of his pants pocket, kissed it, offered it to Sean for a kiss (he declined with impatience), then dropped it over the railing. They listened intently. CLINK! Sean turned to look at Larry. Larry turned to look at Sean. Larry said, "Aw, shit." "Larry," Sean whispered harshly, looking around to see if anyone was looking at them (several were), "the fucking creek's frozen. Why didn't you . . . ?" "There's always a crack open in that ice. It's so near the bay. Brackish water and all. I see it on the way to class everyday." "The problem is, Larry, you don't go to class everyday." "Let's go down there and make sure it goes in the water." They slipped and slid down the short embankment, which educed great laughter from the bridge. "Larry, how are we gonna find the fucking thing." "With . . . " "We didn't bring a fucking flashlight with us." "Right. Well, then on hands and knees, I guess." They must have been a wonderful sight to those leaning and laughing over the bridge, as they groped around on the not too thick ice. After a few minutes of feeling the ice with their gloved hands, they heard a loud crack. The ice buckled but didn't break. Suddenly a flashlight shone on them, and the couples on the bridge could see the pair crawling off the ice as quickly as possible, more laughter ringing out. "Whatcha doin' down their boys?" a voice called out from the bridge. "My, my friend lost his key," Sean said. "Could you come down and help us find it?" "Better get off the ice," the voice said before starting down the slope. "It's liable to break on you. We don't want you to wash out into the bay." They nearly shit their pants when the bearer of the flashlight climbed down the bank and stood beside them. It was none other than Sergeant Bob Wilkins of the campus police. Neither Sean nor Larry knew whether they were shaking just from the cold, the beer they had drunk, or from the sudden appearance of the fuzz in the person of Sergeant Wilkins. They imagined it was mostly the latter. Both were too numb to speak. They stood on the thick frozen edge while Bob flashed the light up and down the icy creek. As he did, Sean and Larry could see the rivulet of water running down the middle of the creek; the slot into which the key was supposed to have disappeared. "There it is, boys," Bob said. "It's over there, near the opposite bank." Larry said to Sean, "You stay here. I'll go over and get it." "Be careful," Sean answered. Larry climbed the embankment, slipping a few times as he did, walked unsteadily across the bridge, through the crowd of cheering lovers, and back down the other side. With Bob's flashlight steady on the key, Larry crawled on hands and knees out to where it lay. As he crawled he reached out . . . a little further . . . just a little bit further . . . two more inches . . . CRACK! SPLASH! Both Larry and the key plunged into the cold water. "Shit!" Larry yelled. "Help! Get me out." By the time Sean reached the opposite bank, some of the guys and girls who were on the bridge had pulled Larry out. At least now he knew why he was shivering uncontrollably. A few coats were placed around his shoulders as he stood shaking on the bank. Sergeant Wilkins was on his walkie-talkie calling an ambulance. "Just relax, son," he said. "Help will be here in a lickity-split. You'll get all warmed up in the infirmary. They'll give you some hot soup and coffee." During the short ambulance ride to the university infirmary, Sean said, "So, Larry, I guess you lost your room key." Larry smiled to the puzzlement of the EMT. "Yah. Shit, I'll have to get a copy from housekeeping when we get back to the dorm." The Smartest Thing She Ever Did by Dan Siemens Beef headed rubber toes nictitate slowly under screeching waterway power-tool. Dog solitude and buzzsaw judgment discover humming fields of chain linked electric death. Ticking twisted instants subjugate undeniable thermostat, placing mutual transparent watershed opulence amidst blank-faced centrifuge. Lunatic buffalo grapplers braid cortical convolutions engendering unthinkable escrow annihilation. Floodgate circulation spring arm contractions force hateful mutation gravy to percolate with thick cheesy flatulence. Innuendo. Large gray non technical ice blocks filter sense-data from the sweaty palmed denizens of the churning clock tower. Reusable dermatology mugs flash grid-like patterns of mental states across the superstructure of the mind. Holiday masses of uniformed silkiness from Berkeley compel subcutaneous predispositions to rise mystically through the crystalline geodesic. Therapeutic vomit hunger scorches the unfathomable slipstream of conflict stratification. When "The A-Team" started to get boring, Sally turned off the television and fell asleep on the sofa. Factory mashers of no certain dignity gathered sullen imponderables, scraping thick yellow gelatin from the corrugated fuselage. Red strap latticework clasp extremities without notice. Above the flaming balustrade seven tilted nodes of punctuation hung expectantly, devouring the barbaric crooners of forgotten fictions. Odoriferous crab grass pontificated geophysical scarab fortunes, while highway robbery boldness festered madly in the spectators. Deliberate syncopations tantalize dynamic halitosis, utilizing roadside morsels in order to strike wholesale casework procedures. Frame razors feature raving felonies, and gestating gimlet producers beseech copious tidal mercenaries to undulate laboriously. Swordfish symphonies run gutter pineapples. Pandemic ebony ledger delegates legitimately confound leather guesswork manuals. Evading deliberative mania scratchers, damp spider-like citadel burials gobble butane highball germicides. Shellfire insecurity octaves support ostensible officer reverberations, and vigilante paradigm fissures incarcerate crematory equilibrium. Livestock cartographers forge fossil dedication entrails, attributing blueprint irrigation falsehoods. Serpentine rotor thongs ensue. The Sunday Ritual by Michael Heacock Bang. . .bang. . .bang. . .bang. . . . Six Sunday morning. I'm supposed to be asleep, but how with all the racket above me. They know I'm not a heavy sleeper. They raised me. Bang. . .bang, int. . .bang, eee. . .bang, int. . .bang, eeesh. . . . This is why all my slumber parties take place on Friday night. Not that Mum and Dad disallow Saturdays. No. Sometimes they question my refusal to hold such get-togethers on that other non-school night. They seem to think I sleep through their Sunday ritual, that my friends would too. I never explain. I don't even want to imagine the giggles and talk that would erupt if my friends knew of my parent's behaviour. Just laying here, pillow over my head, waiting for it to all be over, is embarrassment enough. They're in their late-forties, what is up with all this activity; why is everything still working? Bang, eeesh. . .bang, ooth. . .bang, augck. . .bang, int. . . . I never hear Dad. If it weren't for the headboard slapping up against their bedroom wall, waking my slumbers, I'd never hear Mum. Oh, lucky me. Dad is quiet in life and quiet in love, it seems. Mum's pleasure is subdued, though forcefully, I can almost see the strain swallowing those screams (my skin is crawling just thinking about my parent's carnality, the images popping into my head, unwanted as they are). They've always taken pains to hide the ritual from their children. Yet that headboard. It mustn't be quite the noise it is up there that it is down here. Acoustics. Bang. . .bang, ahh. . .bang, God. . .bang, eeesh. . . . At least they're not experimenting, right there above me. Always missionary. The pace of their tango gives it all away. You don't get those fluent rhythms unless you are doing something you are well practiced at. And they are always quite chipper and agile Sundays, no limping about complaining of pulled muscles, no visible bruising, no Band-Aids or gauze pads. Bang, int. .bangeee, bangsqueakooh bangeeesqueakbangughban gsqueakoonbangughbangaaaahhhh. . . . Well, I guess they go shopping today. Time for a new mattress, maybe a futon, put the old mattress up against the wall. Wouldn't want the kids to find out about your little Sunday ritual. layers by Virgil Hervey zip, button, snap, cotton, wool, nylon, twigs, feathers, grass, sheetrock, fiberglass, vinyl siding, pane glass, smoke detectors, burglar alarms, stern face, crossed legs, arms folded, back arched, hair bristling, personal space, lies Biographies Michael Gibbons I am a San Francisco cab driver and writer of fiction. I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Sierra Leone, West Africa from 1967 to 1969. When I returned I taught high school before deciding to pursue a career in journalism. When the money wasn't very good in writing I supplemented my income by driving a cab. I've never given up cab driving because the impressions I get from people I meet often become the "meat" of my fiction. I have published over 100 articles in several publications including Harper's magazine, Harvard magazine, the Christian Science Monitor, the Boston Phoenix and the Real Paper. Electronically, I've been published in Sparks, Sibboleth, Intertext, and Whirlwind. Michael Heacock Mike is a late-twenties university student who enjoys good intelligent rock, like Nirvana. When he heard of Kurt Cobain's untimely death, he fell into a deep funk, but at no time did he consider following the artist's lead (Mike did drink much beer though). No stories have come of this experience. . .yet. Virgil Hervey Virgil Hervey is a New York City criminal lawyer who plays trumpet and writes poetry and short stories. He is the publisher of GOD'S BAR: un*plugged, a literary magazine for disenfranchised computer bulletin board poets. His poetry and prose have appeared in The Flying Dog, Sand River Journal, The Olympia Review and GOD'S BAR: un*plugged. More are scheduled for upcoming editions of Blank Gun Silencer and Venusian Travelogue. Heather MacLeod Heather is earning her B.F.A. in Creative Writing at the University of Victoria. Her most recent publications have appeared in Tessera, The Alchemist, Herspectives, and Grain. Michael McNeilley Michael McNeilley is editor of the Olympia Review; was Founding Director of the National Student News Service; worked as a reporter and correspondent in Washington, DC; writes on art, disability, business and political issues; and has published poems and stories in New Delta Review, Red Dancefloor, God's Bar, Hammers, Poet, Gypsy, Silent Treatment, Poetry Motel, Lilliput Review, Slipstream, Bouillabaisse, DAM, Ball, Plazm, Minotaur, The Plastic Tower, SIN, xib, Abbey, Aspects, Ma!, Hyphen, Ship of Fools, Exquisite Corpse and many other publications. Dan Siemens I wrote this during my early college years. I think I'd call it "Anti-Poetry" or something like that. Does it mean something? Yes, it certainly does, but I'm not always sure what it is. I'm not even completely sure what the motivation was behind this, but something inspired that dense glut of colorful, yet ultimately meaningless images. I guess the simplest explanation is that reading it over kinda reminds me of watching television. I think there's a great deal of meaning to be found in nonsense and chaos. At least, that's what my mathematician friends tell me. . . . E. Russell Smith When Russ isn't walking through Algonquin Park with a canoe over his head or researching his next story in darkest Anatolia he is a freelance writer in Ottawa, where he has never worked for the government. Watch for his next book, "The Felicity Papers", from General Store PH, in the fall.