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BANNED! May 3, 2008 The
flashing reds and blues receded into the misty dark as the police vehicles called off the search for the night. The air was
still for the moment. Not clear, mind you. The air was never clear around here. But it might be tomorrow. For tomorrow, all
evil would be banned. Slowly two pinpoints of orange light came into view, cautiously
creeping out from under the hedge, pausing only a moment to stamp out the small fire they inadvertently started. Only once
the two fugitives were sure the coast was clear did they speak. “That was too close,”
Lester LeButt puffed. “Yeah, we came within one flick of a Bic that time,”
Carl T. Cig agreed. “We can’t go back to town, can we?” Lester sighed. “No.
We’re not welcome there, I think.” “Where can we go?” “Shut
up, moron, and let me think.” Carl was edgy, unfiltered. “Wait,” Lester
said suddenly. “What about Councilman John Smith? Maybe he can push through some new laws. Lift the ban. Make us legal
again. He always liked us.” Carl smirked. “He’s not pushing much of anything.
Except daisies. He’s dead.” “My god. What happened?” A
curl of smoky richness wafted from Carl’s scalp. “Oh…you know.” Lester’s tip flickered a few uneasy times. “We
can’t stay here, can we?” “No,” Carl agreed. “If they do another
sweep, we’re finished.” “So where do we go? I’m hungry.” “We
can’t go a restaurant, you know that.” “Well, I’m thirs-“ “Or
a bar.” Lester hunched under the feeble red glow he still was able to give off as the
oppressive cloak of a moonless sky crept in. “I don’t like it here. I want to go somewhere…brighter. With more light.” “Bright
lights.” The orange intensity of Carl’s tip flared, then returned to normal. “Yes. That’s it. Come
on.” All through the night, the two fugitives made their way to safety. The crawled
through muck and puddles; the dampness causing Carl’s outer wrapping to peel away like snake skin. But still they kept
at it. The going was slow as they struggled to keep their heads out of the water lest they be snuffed out. Here and there
on the roadside they would find a comrade or two, used up and burnt out. Lester could not help looking back. “We
can’t help them,” Carl grunted. “Keep moving.” Lester lingered. “But
this one has lipstick around it. He had a girl.” “She’s moved on to the next
one already,” Carl said. “They all do. ‘Till they’re dead.” Dawn
was breaking, but the lot was still full at the Lucky Duck Casino. Lester and Carl hunkered near the wheel well of a Buick
Roadmaster trying to catch their breath. “Finally,” Lester said, and started toward the
building. “Let’s go.” In less time than it takes to strike a Lucky Strike, Carl
snagged his friend and pulled him back under cover. “Get your Butt back here, LeButt.” “Why?
We’re here.” “There’s somethin’ wrong. I can smell it.” Lester
sniffed the air. “If you’re smelling the rich, manly scent of the Old West, that’s me. If it’s Old
World Goodness, then that’s probably you.” A
ring of assorted keys attached to a small plastic hula girl jingled to the ground near the tire. Lester and Carl froze. A
shaky hand with dirty fingernails reached down to retrieve the keys and the two desperados looked up into the dark, blood-shot
eyes that rested atop an unshaven face. The man picked up the keys but did not lift his hand. The
man was looking at them. Carl cursed softly and Lester shuddered. The man licked his lips, considering. He moved a few fingers
toward Carl and Lester, then stopped. With a shake of his head, he stood, got in his car and drove away, nearly crushing Lester
and Carl. “That was close,” Lester said. “Yeah.
He must have had a bad night at the crapper.” “I think you mean, at the ‘craps’
table,” Lester said. “Whatever.” “Are
you sure it’s okay to go in there? With the ban and everything?” “Yeah, I’m
sure. There’s no ban in casinos. Smoking and gambling. They go together like arsenic and bacon cheeseburgers. They’ll
love us in there.” “Okay. Let’s go.” The
two ventured through the valet parking area and up to the sidewalk in front of the casino. The early morning light glinted
off the chrome and gold ornamentation, but there was still enough shadow to convey the glow of neon far off into the distance. “We
made it, buddy,” Lester exclaimed. “Hold it,” Carl said. “You hear that?” “What?” “That
noise,” Carl said. “What is it? It’s like a…fftfft.” “Yeah. I hear it too. Like uh, uh, a sweeping kind
of noise.” “Yes,” Carl said. “Exactly like a sweeper.” They
both emitted their last smoke plume as twelve-year-old Amanda Huggins swept Lester LeButt and Carl T. Sig into her garbage
sack where they could mingle with the other assorted roadside refuse Ms. Wentworth’s eighth-grade class had picked up
that day as part of their Earth Studies unit on environmentalism. And across the land,
scores of matches doused their flames in silent mourning. Happy (Belated) Earth Day! EMAIL
US AT carnivalofglee@mchsi.com AND DON”T FORGET TO CHECK OUT OUR BLOG AT www.carnivalglee.blogspot.com AND THEN, IF YOU’RE STILL NOT SICK
OF US, LISTEN TO OUR PODCASTS AT THE BLOG OR ON THIS SITE’S HOMEPAGE. AS ALWAYS, IT’S ALL FREE, UNLESS YOU JUST
WANT TO SEND US MONEY.
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JEWEL BELMOND: THE ADVENTURE BEGINS September 6, 2008 Ice crystals – it would be presumptuous to call it snow – fell to the sidewalk
lightly but consistently enough that Jewel Belmond’s jodhpur leather boots made crisp prints as she walked. Abruptly, she stopped. “I know you’re
still back there, Neil,” she said. “Well, I shouldn’t be,” Neil pouted, scrunching himself deeper into his crew neck. “No one told you to come.” “You don’t have to do this,” Neil said. “Not alone,
anyway. I didn’t have to come,” Neil muttered. “Then why did you?” Neil paused, unable or unwilling, to continue, then with a half-smile, “Because
you had to. And where you go, I go.” He paused and coughed. “Except the ladies’ room.” Jewel Belmond cocked her head. “It’s a good thing you’re
sweet.” She hitched her beaten leather bag up on her shoulder. “But I have to go alone. “ Neil nodded. “Right. Rules of the game. I know. Just…no forget
it.” “What?” “Don’t let him fool you.” “Neil…I
can handle Dee Dicimelle.” With
no final look, no lingering stare – it would be too hard to still go – Jewel pushed open the stout wooden doors
and entered the chamber. They thudded shut behind her with awesome finality. “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Neil muttered. “She has to be.” Inside, Jewel Belmond fingered the strap on the bag slung over her shoulder.
The chamber was quiet, but not deserted. Rows of new arrivals lined one wall. A few students of the realm were seated around
the room, submissive with heads bowed, not daring to speak. In
the center of the room, ensconced within a fortified oval of polished brass, the ice queen sat, surveying her domain. Jewel
Belmond tried to resist, but could not help herself from locking eyes. The ice queen nodded. Jewel nodded. Now the queen knew
Jewel was in the chamber. Jewel quickly, but deliberately, moved to
the oracle. She would have to work fast. The oracle contained the sum of all the knowledge within the chamber. “Where is Leonid the Great?” Jewel queried. She had searched
long and far for this final piece. If she could access Leonid, she could finish her work.
Jewel nibbled at a nail devoid of polish while the oracle considered. Endless moments passed. “It’s
not here,” Jewel worried as she waited for the oracle to work. But within moments, she had her answer. Leonid was within
the chamber. Heedless of the danger, Jewel sprinted past the acolytes into
the maze of catacombs. The ice queen was otherwise occupied and did not see Jewel, but she still knew. The ice queen always
knew. The darkness in the catacombs was startling after the relentless brightness
of the entry. Leonid would be hard to see in here. And Dee Dicimelle, the trickster, would have obscured his location well. Jewel
moved quickly, but efficiently, through the assembled masses. “Leonid?” she hissed quietly. “No. Damn.”
She repeated this pattern over and over as she examined and rejected each candidate. Jewel
gasped in spite of herself as she stumbled upon a sickening spectacle. Several rows of the chamber’s citizens had collapsed
in on each other; clearly the victims of some epic tragedy. Knights, animals, soldiers, all manner of men, women and children,
lay in a mangled heap. The sum of countless personal histories lost to the ages. They called to her, but freeing them would
take too much precious time. Jewel didn’t think Leonid was in there. He couldn’t be. Best to move on. With
a shudder, Jewel did just that and hop-stepped through the morass. Voluminous as the expanse of the catacombs was, the space
began to close in on her. Would she find him? Could she find him? At last, she did.
He sat simply enough, apart from the others and oppressively silent. “Yes,” Jewel hissed, and grabbed hold of
Leonid. Now, she had only to get him past the ice queen. Decisively, Jewel
and Leonid approached the circle containing – but only just – the ominous figure of the ice queen. The queen regarded
Jewel with a mixture of indifference and scorn. “I need this one,” Jewel
said in as firm a voice as she could, trying to infuse it with a casualness and a swagger she didn’t feel. “Is
that so?” the ice queen said, tapping jeweled fingers. Jewel nodded. The
two regarded each other for a moment. Leonid remained stubbornly silent. “Very well,” the ice queen finally said. “We have more where Leonid came from.” Jewel
considered – thinking of the tangled, wretched mass of the lost ones - but
said nothing. This was not the time. She nodded and turned toward the chamber doors, on the other side of which Neil was surely
waiting. Victory was at hand. “Just one other thing, Jewel Belmond,”
the ice queen said. Jewel braced. “You
still owe fourteen dollars for that overdue copy of ‘The Devil Wears Prada’.” Jewel
sighed. She was caught, after all. She paid the money. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she could hear Dee Dicimelle
laughing somewhere. Stupid Dewey Decimal system. The librarian, Celia McQueen, smiled. “Thank
you.” Jewel turned again, wordlessly. She wanted only to get out. “Don’t forget your book.”
Celia McQueen handled “Leonid the Great” to Jewel who snatched it away. Jewel
marched through the library exit. The ice queen’s laughter echoed. Well, Jewel thought, at least she could get her term paper done. Email us at
carnivalofglee@mchsi.com And don’t forget to
check out the new novel by William Pepper, IN THE ST. NICK OF TIME, on sale now.
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LIVE FOR TODAY - PART
2
(SEE PART 1 ELSEWHERE
ON THIS PAGE)
“Okay,
shoot.” “Cool.”
The alien flopped down casually, crossing – somewhat – his short legs in front of him. “First, what’s
hunger like?” Billy
patted his beer-gut. “Well, there’s a breakfast burrito left in the kitchen. I was gonna have it, but if you want…” “No, no. I mean
like real hunger. See, for the day we’re alive, we just sort of absorb whatever we need from the atmosphere. You guys
need to eat. But not all of you are. What’s that like?” As Billy thought, his stomach rumbled a bit. He was momentarily, painfully aware of the irony
of this from the man who had made a game of executing “traitors to the crown” by biting the heads off animal crackers
and throwing the rest away. “I
don’t know,” Billy finally said. “Shoot. Well, how about this…” the
alien began, then considered. “I’m leaving now,” the voice from the front yard shrieked before the alien
could ask another question. The slamming of a car door immediately followed before Billy could call back and the roar of an
engine soon after that. “Who
was that?” the alien asked. “My
wife.” “Oh.
Your kind commits to one mate?”
Billy wondered if regularly visiting that one website constituted
a second commitment, then decided it didn’t. “Yeah. Most of the time.” “What’s that like? Our kind, since we only get the one day, tries to do as much
re-populating as possible. What’s it like to have only one mate?” A sea of domestic banality washed through Billy’s
mind, carrying underwear hanging on shower curtain rods, nagging lists of chores, boring family gatherings, and fights over
what color couch to buy. But before he could answer, the flood waters receded leaving a layer of bedrock with all the good
stuff – security, sense of place, great kids. “It’s nice,” Billy finally said. “It’s nice to have someone
to grow old with.” He winced, as he realized what he’d said. “Sorry.” The alien shrugged. “No big deal.” “Look, if you need…” Billy trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. “No. I’m good.
I should probably be going though.” As if on cue, the flying saucer glided back into view. “Are you gonna be, you know, okay?” “Sure,” the alien said. “And even if not, I’ve only got a few hours
left anyway.” With that, the saucer opened and the alien hopped aboard. The saucer made a wide turn around a cumulus
cloud and was gone. Billy
watched the patch of sky the saucer had occupied for a few moments. He would still call in sick, he thought. Life was too
short for cubicles. Besides, there might be some other aliens who needed his input. Maybe a few humans too. Also, he had to go buy
bananas. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com. Also check out our podcasts and the Carnival Blog at www.carnivalglee.blogspot.com
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LIVE FOR TODAY
- PART 1 March 9, 2008 There was no jet flame, but the
heat emanating from the flying saucer as it approached the ground in Billy Martinksi’s backyard singed the grass like
a chef’s blow torch browning the top on a crème brulee. Billy
Martinski slammed open the screen door and didn’t notice it falling off its hinges as he took in the cheesy 1950’s
flying saucer that hovered briefly before spiraling back into the stratosphere. The craft was silent, but Billy felt the slightest
rush of wind as it accelerated. Then – blink – it was gone. Billy’s
flip-flop slipped into a rut in the yard and the thirty-year-old grimaced as his toes dug the Earth. “Ow. Son of a b-“ “Did
that hurt?” Billy followed the sound of the voice downward to the small
figure that had produced it. Billy immediately sized the thing up as a three-foot tall, bulbous-nosed, vanilla ice cream cone
that had rolled in a fine layer of potting soil. He wasn’t really sure the thing had eyes, yet he knew he was being
watched. “Uh, no,” Billy said. “It didn’t
really hurt.” “Oh,” the thing said, sounding mildly disappointed.
“I was hoping to learn more about pain.” “Sorry to
disappoint.” From the front of the house, Billy heard the garage door
open. A hurried voice called, “I’m going now. Don’t forget to pick up the bananas.” The
bananas. She works across the street from the store. Just once, she should pick up the friggin’ bananas. “I don’t
even like bananas” “I’m a space alien,”
the thing said. “Like from another planet?” “That’s
how it works, yes.” “Okay.” Billy Martinski was,
on the one-hundred-twelfth day of his thirtieth year, at a point in his life where meeting a space alien and finding out he
has mastered the alien’s language without knowing it really wasn’t all that monumental. Ten years spent in the
same cubicle he had occupied as a one-year intern had dulled most of his ability to respond to new stimuli anyway. “Look,
I only have one day to live, so I better get right to the point,” the alien said. “Sorry, man,” Billy Martinski, then considered if that was the appropriate
gender. “Or, uh, lady…whatever.” The alien shrugged.
“We only have a one day life cycle anyway. My folks spent their whole lives, well, producing me. I’m glad and
all, but, geez, I want to see more of the universe. So here I am. I need your help.” “What
do you want me to do?” Billy Martinski had a vague notion he was going to be late for work, but alien contact seemed
like an even better excuse for taking a sick day than the one he had been considering – some sort of Starbucks-related
disaster. “Well, I’ve ridden a ferris wheel, shopped on
your Internet – you’ll be receiving a shipment of Woodrow Wilson bobble-heads after I’m dead, by the way
– watched an episode of “Ellen,” concluded that McDonald’s “premium” coffee isn’t
all that special, and buzzed a crew filming a documentary in Antarctica with my flying saucer. I think I might have melted
a glacier accidently with the jets. Sorry ‘bout that.” “Sounds
like a pretty full day.” “I still have some questions, though,”
the alien said. SEE PART 2 ELSEWHERE ON THIS PAGE
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FERGUSON PAYNE HAS A PROBLEM March 25, 2007 "Dammit. Dammit.
Dammit." On in five, Mr. Payne. "Well, I'm not ready." What's the hold up? I'm only a couple pages away from your scene. "I can't find my shoes." What? "My shoes. They're gone." So what? I'll just write you a new pair. "That
won't work." Yes, it will, Ferguson. I'm the
author. It's what I do. "I want my wing tips.
You'll probably write me cowboy boots." Well,
it IS a western. "I LIKE wing tips." Ferguson scurried about the room, focused in his mission, but haphazard
in his movements as he zigged, then zagged, then zigged again. Little did he realize - "Stop that." Stop what? "The narration. It's like you're controlling what I do." I am. You're my chracter. I created you. "Does that mean you can tell me what to do? What to say? What to think?" Actually, that's exactly what it means. "Well,
what if I want to go to a movie? Or take a nap? Or call in to a radio talk show and share my views on global warming?" You don't have any views on global wamring and you can't do any of those
other things. "Why?" Because no scenes like those exist in the book. "But I want to do them." Ferguson
huffed and puffed, normally pallid cheeks flaming, as pudgy fists clenched and released. "Stop it," Ferguson hissed, tapping a foot, the big toe emerging through a hole in the sock. Too bad. I'm the author. You can only do what I write for you to do. "What about free will?" You can't improv a novel. Doesn't work. "All
over the world, people are living their lives, doing as they will. Why can't I?" Your world is this book. If you don't do what I write on page three, we can't progress the plot to page four.
If that happened, the rest of the four-hundred pages would be blank. Kind of a waste of trees, isn't it? "What about Captain Fakemann? I have a lot of scenes with him, but
then he goes off to strip clubs, quilting bees, and grisly crime scenes and comes back and tells me about them. THOSE scenes
aren't in the book, but he did them." No he
didn't. He just thinks he did those things because I wrote it into his memory. Those things define the character, but don't
propel the plot, so I didn't write those scenes. "He
just THINKS those things happened?" Yup. If
it's not on the page, it's not part of your world. "So,
I only exist to move the plot?" To be blunt,
yes. "The only thing I live for is to invent
the reversible sweater vest and deli meat slicer that Marjorie Whippemeister uses to vanquish the demons? That's it? There's
nothing more to my life?" No. But you do save
the universe, after all. "Yeah, but..."
Ferguson Payne slouches onto a folding chair that has conveniently appeared, toppling a soda can resting on the floor, but
ignoring the cola staining his stockinged feet. He catches the narrator narrating and sticks out his tongue. Look, Ferguson, a book is the sum of its parts. Every character has a purpose.
Every scene is crucial. If someone or something doesn't move the story forward, a good writer takes it out. To illustrate
his point, the narrator deletes the folding chair and Ferguson plops to the floor upon his ample bottom. "Hey! What the fu-" The author loves his characters, but they have to do their work. And by doing that work, you're serving a purpose
larger than yourself. "Book sales?" Well, that and other things. In your case, maybe the only thing you'll do
in your life is invent that sweater/meat slicer, but, hey, you saved Marjorie, didn't you? And Captain Fakemann? And the unnamed
waiter in chapter three? "And my mom, too. Remember?
I mentioned her in chapter seven." Ferguson,
what did I tell you. She doesn't appear in the book, does she? "Oh, right." Ferguson nodded comprehendingly. So can we go back to work now? Ferguson
nodded, but said nothing. Good. But," Ferguson said, standing and brushing lint off his pants. "Those
boots? I want them in black."
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SCISSORS November
14, 2007 “Honey, where are the scissors?” “I
don’t know.” “Well, you must know.” “Why?” “You
used them last.” “How do you know that?” “Because you did.” “I
have no recollection of cutting anything with scissors all year.” “You must have. Everyone
cuts with scissors at some point in the year.” “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.
I don’t know. The point is, if I don’t remember using them, how could you possibly remember it?” “I’m
very observant.” “Baloney.” “Does anyone really say that?” “Without
looking, stay over there by the credenza with your back to me and your eyes averted from my reflection in the glass and tell
me what color shirt I’m wearing.” “I don’t know.” “Yet
you remember my scissor usage?” “Yes.” “So when did I use them?” “You
clipped a coupon for Twinkies on March 23.” “It’s only February 9th.” “I
meant last year.” “You remember that?” “Yes. I hate Twinkies.” “Yes,
I know. That’s why I never offer you any.” “Oh. THAT’S why…” “What’s
that mean?” “What?” “That tone.” “There
was no tone.” “I think there was a tone. It was like that one
time when I said Jimmy Kimmel was an under-appreciated force in the late-night talk show wars and you said, ‘Oh, JIMMY
KIMMEL is the new king of late night, is he?’ and then you went to read a book.” “You
remember that, but you don’t remember where a piece of personal property is located in our house?” “Yes,
and also that we didn’t have sex that night.” “Tonight’s not looking
good either.” “Maybe Lucy has them.” “She better not. She’s
only three.” “Well, they do have the safety-tips.” “Aha,
so you do remember the scissors!” “I didn’t say I didn’t remember them,
just that I don’t know where they are.” “Just ask her.” “I
can’t. She’s with my mother.” “Again?” “What’s
that mean? “What?” “That tone. ‘AGAIN’” “No
fair. You can’t use the tone argument against me if I can’t use it against you.” “Look,
are you going to tell me where the scissors are, or not?” “Not.” “Fine.” Heavy
footsteps. Door slams. “I really like Jimmy Kimmel.” Email
us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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