Issue 9 - Spring 2020

Fiction

The Film Director’s Insomnia

John Talbird

At night I can’t sleep, so I walk the house, look out the windows at our upper class suburban neighborhood, the darkened homes surrounding us, the moths batting at the perpetually lit bulbs on their front porches. Occasionally, I walk into my kids’ rooms to watch them sleep. Now and then, I sit on the edge of my bed with a peanut butter sandwich and glass of milk, the glowing television on the bureau silent, and watch my wife sleep. She slumbers on her back, mouth slightly open. If I were to lean close, I would hear her snore although she insists that she doesn’t. Sometimes, when we have guests, I will even walk into their room and watch these strangers having their dreams.

We have many guests, as my wife loves to entertain and we have a spacious home in the country, a refuge of sorts from city life. This evening, we have a couple staying, Tony and Joanna Roberts. After the dinner of Cornish hen and broccoli rabe, a few bottles of a very good Sauvignon blanc, Joanna blurted that Tony is infertile, that they respect me so much as a person, as a specimen of manhood—yes! she really said that—and they just need some sperm. There’s nothing but trouble and desire. Just when I think our life has finally achieved a fragile calm, someone bursts into our bower wanting something, upsetting the cart and dispelling peace. I can’t help but wonder if there are end credits, any final score, any happily ever after in our future.

But there is no “us” to this story. I know the future, I have seen it: I will be the last man on Earth, tracing out his days on the burnt husk of this former green and blue globe. That’s why I hesitate in volunteering my sperm, my seed, the grain of my image, not because of vague legal or filial entanglements or even because the world is going to hell in a hand basket. It is and that’s beside the point. Why help create someone new, someone made from my stuff, who will eventually, quite soon, in fact, abandon me like all the rest?

I have learned of the Earth’s destruction, not from scientists or politicians or preachers or any other snake oil salesmen, but from angels who have come to our house to speak to me in the middle of the night when I cannot sleep. Gabriel preaches in the library, Michael stares from the bathroom mirror as I brush my teeth, and Fred intones while I eat my third bowl of cold cereal. When the sky is clear I can see the twinkling 24-hour glow of L.A. in the distance, the supposed “City of Angels,” but there are no angels there. Instead, they tread the floors of my ten thousand-square-foot home, hover near the ceiling, float beneath the aqua tints of my night-lit swimming pool. Although they speak in hymn and riddle, in tongues and chant, the message is clear: Soon there will be no one. No one but me.

I walk through our cavernous eggshell white rooms, bare feet cool on marble floor, and regard the Kirlian photographs I’ve taken of my visitors engaged in their nighttime exercises. These blue and red glowing images that I’ve captured, my wife insists are nothing more than the anthropomorphic auras of the daytime bodies of our kids and guests ensconced in their beds like sensible humans while I make my nighttime peregrinations. These wraithlike figures echo the screensaver in the living room which flashes images from digital newspapers that correspond with those on the muted television and today’s paper spread out on the kitchen table: protests turning to riot, burnt effigies and bodies, militants praying and loading automatic weapons, civilians painting dumb and docile animals with peace symbols and flags, sowing seeds in patterns of logo. People weep and sternly pontificate. Androids, a new ethnicity muddying the melting pot, join the fight, often quite viciously, for their rights.

I step from our brightly lit white house out onto the nighttime porch, crickets singing, neighbors’ lights twinkling. If I look just right, I can see the ghostly outlines of the girders from the buildings that want to be built, the corporate entities that want to take root in this nearly virgin soil. Before that happens, the world will end and I will stand on this mountain top looking down on it all, wondering what to do with my life now that there is no one to watch my films.

John Talbird is the author of the chapbook, A Modicum of Mankind (Norte Maar). His novel The World Out There will be released in the summer of 2020 by Madville Publishing, and his fiction and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Apalachee Review, Ploughshares, Grain, Juked, Potomac Review and North Dakota Quarterly among many others. He is a frequent contributor to Film International, on the editorial board of Green Hills Literary Lantern, and Associate Editor, Fiction, for the noir online journal Retreats from Oblivion. A professor at Queensborough Community College-CUNY, he lives with his wife in New York City.

How to Date a Mole Girl

T. S. McAdams

First of all, they don’t call themselves mole people. Contrary to urban legend, they are not related to moles; nor do they much identify with them. Badgers, shrews, rabbits, and ants are all more common than moles in their folklore. Their word for themselves translates as “hidden” or “private.” Just call her by her name. It may be Catherine.

#

You don’t find her in New York. True, there’s a colony under New York. Most of what you see online is not true. Those are not mole girls, any more than furry sites show actual foxes and cats. Pipe tobacco doesn’t make them horny, either. They’re not hobbits. But yes, there are colonies in the Northeast and Upper Midwest. That doesn’t mean you’ll meet one on the street in New York or Minneapolis. If you did, she wouldn’t talk to you. They can be insular.

Stay in Los Angeles. Go to Gil and Naomi’s Hanukkah party. They’ve got a big house on a street where lots are doubled and facades well-tended, but you still know it’s Van Nuys. Something about the faded asphalt, the shadows willow and acacia trees cast on it even at night. Gil’s mom actually owns the place, and she’s doing great in assisted living, but it’s no big secret how that ends. Go in and take a glass of whatever Naomi’s pouring, but keep your jacket on. You’re going to the backyard.

Raise your glass to people talking football on the patio, and go all the way back, where it’s too dark to know whether you’re standing in weeds or tended ivy. Don’t interrupt the girl holding up the spiked stick, the kind prisoners use to pick up trash along the highway. She holds it like she’s spearfishing in the ivy, but she lowers it in disappointment when the rustling moves away. Now you can talk.

Too bad you refused Gil’s rustic toast points with cream cheese and smoked salmon. You don’t like cream cheese, but she might. Never mind. There’s a jerky stick in your jacket pocket. She doesn’t thank you, and that’s fine. If you stood calf deep in a forest and a wild doe let you feed her chorizo-flavored meat, you wouldn’t expect thanks. If she goes home with you, she will chirp and twitter during foreplay and grunt fiercely during sex. These sounds are disconcerting at first. After she leaves you, it will be difficult to achieve orgasm without them.

#

Don’t overreact when she crawls into a storm drain with her stick and burlap sack. There is nothing nasty about this. Sewage and drainage are different systems. Obviously, you can’t go with her. It’s an eight-inch opening, maybe less. And she’ll be a while, so don’t stand there waiting. Go to work. If it’s the weekend, go home and read a book. You didn’t read all the classics in college. Rediscover the life of the mind.

Or you could look at a drain system map online, color coded by the Department of Public Works. Drains and channels in blue are maintained by County Flood Control, violet by the city, tan by Parks and Recreation, different shades of yellow by Caltrans or private entities. Gray means “unknown,” which is odd but not code for lizard people. The Shufelt dig of the 1930s debunked any theory of reptile civilization underneath Los Angeles. Catherine, who hates reptiles, comes home tired and happy with something in her sack. She probably won’t mind if you look in the sack, and you should. If you don’t, you’ll always wonder.

#

Kissing her leaves you flushed and disoriented. Catherine’s people have toxic saliva.

#

Don’t pretend you’re quitting your job for her. You’re just sick of processing loans and sick of that underwriter, Megan, who signs off too late and blames you when the rate goes up, lying that you didn’t get conditions in on time. You hate that beige and aluminum office with windows that don’t open and Freon-flavored air that hurts your throat. You can tell her about it, but don’t think you’re kindred spirits escaping her burrow and your cubicle for adventures in the wide world. She was as free in the tunnels as on a prairie, and to be honest, she’s barely listening. Her shiny little eyes are locked on Mr. Riley’s cat, Butterscotch, parading himself on your apartment balcony. When the cat disappears, you should set aside any nosiness about that sack.

#

She leaves you without drama or rancor, and it feels like being dumped in high school. Sure, you knew the adults were right, and this wasn’t real or serious, but what have you got now? Anime Club? She leaves a drawer full of t-shirts and leggings. What little she takes is mostly yours. Your grandparents gave you those silver dollars over four or five childhood birthdays. It’s not like you ever would have spent them. Leave the box you kept them in at the back of your sock drawer, and nothing has really changed.

You find another job, as a loan processor again. What did you expect, O Lit Major? And what happened to that passion for D. H. Lawrence and Virginia Woolf, anyway? Your new office is part of a bank, so the dress code is stricter. And a loan officer here tries to use deposit statements when real bank statements disqualify prospects for stated-income loans. Pay is a little better, though. You didn’t think pay was the issue, but maybe it was.

The blond in the cubicle next to yours says her favorite movie is Orlando. Catherine didn’t watch movies with you. The girl is conventionally attractive, as are you to a lesser extent, so go ahead and marry her. Give each other anniversary presents. Have dogs and children and love them. Leave storm drains alone. This is not a tragedy.

T. S. McAdams lives with his wife and son and dogs in the San Fernando Valley. His fiction has appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Madcap Review, Santa Monica Review, Pembroke, Jersey Devil Press, Exposition Review, Sierra Nevada Review, Faultline, and Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet.

My Grandpop, the Villain

Matt Whelihan

My grandpop looked weird without his eyebrows and cape, and he was really taking his time with his cream-chipped beef. I wanted to get out of the diner and back to the hotel room. I wanted to draw on his eyebrows and listen to him shout, “Zantarro has returned!”

The sooner he did, the sooner we could get to the convention. And the sooner we got there, the sooner I could meet up with Brad.

“Is there anything you’d like to do while we’re in Louisville?” my grandpop asked.

“Not really,” I said.

“Did you see the giant bat? That’s the Slugger factory. There’s probably a tour there.”

“You know I don’t like baseball.”

“That’s right. My apologies.”

I found the spot above his left ear, the spot that was always shinier than the rest of his bald head. I had to get the next part right.

“Today I just want to chill,” I said. “Maybe go to a coffee place or something while you’re working the table.”

I shoved some pancake into my mouth and stared at my plate as I chewed.

“Coffee place?” he said. “Since when do you hang out in coffee places? You don’t even drink coffee.”

“I just don’t want to be in there all day with the nerds,” I said.

“Don’t forget that those nerds pay the bills.”

Brad called the convention goers basement dwellers and mouth breathers. He knew it wasn’t normal for adults to spend so much time buying toys and shaking hands with old actors, and so did I.

But I kept chewing my pancakes. I wasn’t going to say anything that could screw up the plan Brad and I had been working on for weeks.

“All right,” my grandpop said. “I get it. You can do the coffee shop. As much as I don’t want to admit it, you’re thirteen, and you need your freedom. And besides, you’ve been working hard, and I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re my manager! My right hand!”

I hated his stupid stage voice, but I had to smile. I was one step closer.

*

I was ten when my mom died. I remember finding her on her bed with one arm hanging down, and I remember the dumb things people said to me, people who didn’t even know me or my mom. Like the ambulance guy saying, “Sometimes people’s bodies just stop working,” or the lady in the apartment next to ours telling me, “The stress your mother went through was enough for two lifetimes.”

I wanted to laugh and tell them that I wasn’t an idiot. I knew what a drug addict was, and I knew what the spoons and cotton and needles were for. But I couldn’t say anything. I had what some doctor told me was shock, or trauma, or something like that.

My grandpop came and got me at some point. I didn’t know anything about him cause I’d only met him a few times before that, usually when my mom needed money. I knew he was an actor, which seemed pretty cool, but the one time I’d asked my mom if we could watch his movies, she had laughed.

“He was never in a movie,” she said. “Just some terrible space show in the ‘80s. Like Star Trek, but worse.”

I had to use the posters on the walls of his apartment to figure him out. Most of them were for plays I didn’t know, ones where he had wear suits or old clothes with baggy pants and frilly shirts. But three of them were for Final Planet. Those were the ones I liked. They had spaceships and explosions and Zantarro. They had my grandpop shooting electricity out of his fingers as he faced down Commander Rightson and tried to conquer the galaxy. They were pretty cool.

I went to my first convention a little while after that, and it was like a mix between a parade and a toy store. The people were dressed like robots and animals and super heroes, each one this amazing mix of plastic, spandex, Styrofoam, and face paint. And my grandpop was dressed up too, wearing his purple cape and showing off the eyebrows I’d drawn on.

And then there was the merchandise. There were boxes full of comics I’d never read, racks full of action figures and dolls I’d never seen, and tables covered with trading cards, prop guns, posters, DVDs, t-shirts, and dozens of other things I wanted to take home with me.

I’d watch my grandpop shout at the convention goers as they passed, saying stuff like “Ah, another peon dare approach!” or “If you know what’s good for you and the rest of mankind, you will purchase something!”

And they would all smile, would all head over to our table to get an autograph or take a selfie and buy something. And for a little while, it felt like I was related to someone famous.

*

My grandpop’s friend Harold was at our table when we got there. He had played Commander Rightson on Final Planet, and My grandpop claimed he was the show’s “hunk,” but I didn’t see it. He needed a cane to get around, his jumpsuit had holes in the elbows, and he just looked old, like some crazy, wrinkled wizard.

The two of them covered our table with the usual crap. My grandpop brought headshots he’d autograph for fifteen dollars and stacks of Final Planet DVDs. Harold brought some book he’d written about himself and old lunchboxes he called “collector’s items.”

When the doors opened, the freaks spilled in. There were two people who looked like Harley Quinn, a bunch of Spider-Mans, at least four Transformers, and some dude who was way too old to be dressed like the kid from Pokémon. They were obnoxious, and they smelled like sweat and dirty feet.

I smiled through a half hour of it, playing my role as a good right hand and manager, and then I got ready to go.

“So where is this coffee place?” my grandpop asked.

I stared at the tiny spot below his nose that he always missed when he shaved.

“Right around the corner,” I said. “Like a three-minute walk. I’m not going all over the city or anything.”

My grandpop sighed.

“Well, like I said, you deserve a little freedom. You’re starting to break out of your chrysalis, and I need to let you spread your wings.”

I wanted to groan, but I hugged him and headed out the door.

*

About a year after my mom died, I was eating Hamburger Helper with my grandpop when he said he had an announcement.

“Why should we have one home,” he started, “when we can have a million? Why wake to the same landscape every day when you could be treated to a new view with each sunrise? Why limit ourselves to a static lifestyle when we can roam free like nomads of the states?”

I had no idea what a nomad was or what he was going on about, but I was smiling like a dumb little kid, getting all excited like we were about to meet Taylor Swift and move into her mansion.

“I think it’s time for me to take on a new job,” he said. “And I am going to need you as my manager! My right hand! I want to hit every hall, every store, and every event in this country that will have me! I want to bring Zantarro back to the masses!”

Just like I knew my mom was using, I knew that my grandpop was pretty broke. He never said anything about money, but I saw the way he got in the grocery store. The way he’d look at two boxes of the same thing to see which one was cheaper. And I knew why he cancelled the cable, even if he said it was cause we had plenty of movies to watch.

But I also knew that people went on vacations. They got to see beaches, mountains, rollercoasters, and other incredible things, and that was something I’d never done. All I ever got to see were three places: home, school, and the stores down the street.

Of course, after a few months of conventions and cyber school, I realized it was nothing like a vacation. There were no exotic destinations or amazing experiences, just big rooms packed full of the same cheesy stuff and the same goofy people. It was just me getting pretty sick of my grandpop.

I mean, he took better care of me than my mom ever did. He made sure I got to eat more than just cereal and frozen pizza, and he even asked me about my schoolwork and got me a cake for my birthday. But I couldn’t tell him what I was really thinking. Like how I felt pathetic when I saw that pageant girls were staying in the same hotel as us, or the fact that I actually missed cafeterias and lockers and teachers.

 And, on top of that, I think he was kind of freaked out by me. He couldn’t even say the words “bra” or “tampon.” Instead he’d say “lady things” and turn red. Then he’d hand me cash and wait outside the store while I got what I needed.

The only thing that kept me from losing my mind was my computer. Each day, I’d get all my school stuff done in an hour or two, and then I’d tell my grandpop I was still working. That’s when I’d check Instagram and Twitter. It’s when I’d watch videos on YouTube and TikTok. It’s when I’d talk to other people like me—actual, real, thirteen-year-old girls who weren’t obsessed with Deadpool, Walking Dead, or Star Wars. They worried about the same things as me, and unlike my grandpop, they didn’t get all weird when we talked about them.

And Brad was online too. He was a really good listener, probably cause he was a little bit older. He’d tell me the pageant girls were shallow and that I deserved something better than the conventions. And he’d tell me how much he liked talking to me and explained that we had something special.  And then he was saying we should meet up, that talking in person would be even better than online.

*

I got there before Brad, and I didn’t want to look like some little kid, so I ordered a cup of coffee and grabbed a table. I added four sugar packets to my drink, but it still kind of sucked.

I was thinking about getting more cream when I heard some guy say, “Hey there!”

He was just this basic, dad-looking dude in jeans and a blue t-shirt.

“Shannon?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, wondering how the guy knew my name.

“It's me, Brad,” he said. “It's so good to finally meet you in person.”

He sat down at the table. His face had this perfect, post-it-on-your-profile smile, but I was a little weirded out.

“I was so excited when I heard you'd be coming to Louisville with your grandfather,” he said. “On the way to the coffee shop I started to get scared that I’d imagined the whole thing!”

He laughed, and I tried to smile.

“So how was the convention today?” he asked. “As bad as usual?”

I knew photos weren’t always super real. The one my grandpop sold at the conventions made him look twenty years younger, and my friends had shown me apps you could use to make your boobs look bigger or your pimples disappear.

“Yeah,” I said.

I looked at my coffee.

“Did he call anyone a peon?” Brad asked.

I laughed. Before going to sleep, we would type “goodnight peon!” to each other.

“He did!” I said. “Right before I left. He said it to this fat guy with some DVDs.”

“That’s hilarious,” he said. “Well, listen, I don’t know how much time we have, so I want to give this to you now.”

He took a small box from his pocket and pushed it across the table.

“Go ahead and open it,” he said.

I thought about saying no, but I also thought about the fact that nobody else was giving me presents. Inside the box was a pair of silver earrings with turquoise in the middle of them.

“That's my favorite color,” I said.

“I know,” he answered. “Did you think I'd forget that?”

I lifted one of the earrings from the box when something dawned on me.

“My ears aren't pierced,” I said.

“I know that too,” he said. “That's why the second part of the gift is going to get them pierced. There’s a place close by. The whole thing will only take half an hour.”

It didn’t seem like the best idea, but it was Brad. We’d had so many conversations, and he had helped me to forget about the conventions, the nerds, and my grandpop so many times.

“It will only take twenty minutes,” he said.

He reached across the table and put his hand on mine. A warmth spread like somebody had spilled something inside me. It was weird, and kind of scary, but kind of awesome too.

“It’ll be a quick trip,” he said. “I’ll have you right back.”

I looked at our hands. Then, I looked at his face again.

“I know,” he said. “I look older than in the picture I sent you. It was from a couple years ago, but it’s my favorite. And you look younger than you said.”

I’d forgotten about that. I’d said I was sixteen, and I’d made sure I was wearing makeup when I took the pic.

“Okay,” I said. “I really do want to get them pierced.”

We were at his car a minute later. He opened the passenger door for me, and I moved towards the seat. But it was weird. I had spent almost two months imagining our meeting, and that car and that guy were not the way it had looked.

“What’s wrong?” Brad asked.

He put a hand on my back and leaned in until our faces were real close. There were wrinkles coming from the corners of his eyes—maybe not as crazy and big as my grandpop’s, but they were there. And I could see these little gray hairs by his left ear. I took a step back.

“I don’t think I can—”

He grabbed my arm before I got it all out.

“Come on,” he was saying in this super nice voice. “It will be fast. I’ll have you back before the convention ends.”

He was still smiling, but it felt like his fingers were pressing into my bones. I wanted to run away, but didn’t really know how. It was hard to talk too, to even think of the words I wanted.

“Just get in,” he said. “It’ll be fun.”

He got behind me and pushed. My head and shins smacked into the car’s doorframe, but I hardly felt it. Then half of me was in the car, and he was still pushing. I could see a can of soda in the cup holder. I could see all the terrible, gross things that would happen to me. And then, it was hard to see anything at all.

The sound of Brad yelling and cursing brought me back, and that’s when I realized his hands weren’t on me anymore. I stepped away from the car and found him holding his head. Behind him, gripping Harold’s cane like a sword, was my grandpop.

“Get the hell away from her!” he yelled as I ran towards him.

“Jesus Christ,” Brad said. “You stupid old man. What are you doing? I am going to fuck you up.”

My grandpop lifted the cane higher.

“You better get out of here while you still can,” he said.

I was scared Brad would charge, maybe try to tackle my grandpop, or at least punch him in the head. But he just closed the passenger-side door, ran around to the other side of his car, and got in. After he drove off, my grandpop lowered the cane.  

I hugged him and tried telling him about it, but all that came out was stuff like, “He was different. Wasn’t him.” My grandpop seemed to get it, though. He told me it was okay, and he hugged me back.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Harold was taking a smoke break,” he said, “and I was still a little concerned about you going to a coffee shop alone, so I came out with him to check on you.”

I looked up at him as he searched his pockets for his cell phone. There was the shiny spot on his head, the whiskers he always missed when he shaved, and the eyebrows I’d drawn on in the hotel room that morning.

“We can talk in a minute,” he said, “but right now I need to call the cops before I forget that license plate number, and then I should get this cane back to Harold. I don’t know how long that telephone pole he’s leaning against can hold him up.”

It was bright and sunny that day—like the kind of background a kid puts in a picture when he draws his house and his family. My grandpop was standing there with his cape flapping around behind him as he talked on the phone. He looked like he could command a space fleet and conquer a galaxy. It was pretty cool.

Matt Whelihan is an assistant professor of English at Wilmington University. His work has appeared in publications such as The Carolina Quarterly, Slice, Hobart, Gravel, and Cleaver. In 2018, his story, "Eighteen Dead Water Buffalo," was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He lives in the Philadelphia area with his wife.