POWERLESS #7

POWERLESS

A Composite Graphic Novel exclusive to Absinthe Hour

PAGE SEVEN

“POWERLESS”

1 – Medium Panel.  Chief Harrison sits idly in his office, with a looming depravity about his person which has become the norm for him.  A single desk lamp, lit, angles concavely upon his desk—upon a book in which Chief Harrison writes—slicing through the oppressive darkness of night’s natural veil.  The city skyline behind Chief Harrison offers a broad look at the city at sleep, for most; a few scattered lights from a few illuminated windows tell a tale of the restless nocturnal.

NARRATOR (CH): I’ve been feeling a lot of things lately --

NARRATOR (CH): None of them GOOD.

NARRATOR (CH): Which, as surprising as it may seem, is nothing new.

2 – Medium Panel.  A loosely formed circle of a light blankets a journal, the right page of the journal being heavily worked in Chief Harrison’s pensive script (the words are the narration).  Squeezing for the slightest taste of light from underneath the journal is an edition of the day’s news, offering the risen crime rate and the mysterious disappearance of their superhero.

NARRATOR (CH): But, lately, I’ve begun to feel something ELSE.

NARRATOR (CH): I wish it were something I could EASILY PLACE,

NARRATOR (CH): like the last spongy cardboard puzzle piece to a toddler’s four-piece puzzle.

3 – Wide Panel.  The view of the station’s 15^th floor from outside offers a relatively buzzing office at work; everything is ablaze in incandescence, except for Chief Harrison’s office, which offers a meek excuse for light and as much fervency as a deeply embedded rock in an wide field.  Chief Harrison hunches impertinently over his journal, writing diligently his thoughts into the journal like a prophet hoping to capture every fleeting detail before it wanes from his memory. 

NARRATOR (CH): But, like all emotions, this is as complex as Guass-Newton’s ALGORITHM.

NARRATOR (CH): It’s easy to be lost and hopeless,

NARRATOR (CH): secure or hopeful,

4 – Small panel.  The badge of an OFFICER glimmers under the hazy glare of the police station’s artificial light. 

NARRATOR (CH): and everything in-between,

5 – Small panel.  The officer rushes toward Chief Harrison’s office, his badge rattles upon his breast pocket with each heavy step.

NO DIALOGUE

6 – Small panel.  The officer, hurrying fast, wears a face of fear—his brows angled high upon his face, his mouth agape, lips dry without the care for moisturizing them with the slightest lick of his tongue, eyes weighing heavily, deep under his lids.

NARRATOR (CH): but this is something different.

7 – Medium Panel.  An observation from over Chief Harrison’s shoulder offers James Tulley’s criminal file, a picture of James Tulley with a half-smile clipped to a bundle of papers — various police reports, biographical information, and other files hidden by the steep, clipped stack.  There’s a knock on the door to his office.

NARRATOR (CH): I know how James Tulley must be feeling

NARRATOR (CH): because HE introduced this FEELING to me.

NARRATOR (CH): Something PARALYZING.

8 – Medium Panel.  The officer opens the door to the relatively shadowed room and searches for Chief Harrison with fearful eyes.  Chief Harrison glances up at the officer, emotionlessly, not startled or worried in the least in his unexcited anticipation of the officer’s news.  He simply waits.

NARRATOR (CH): I feel—

OFFICER: Sir?

9 – Small panel.  Chief Harrison reaches for the dangling beaded string under the lamp’s bulb.

OFFICER (O/P): Homicide at Seventh and Walnut.  We’re needed.

10 – Small panel.  The light is out.

THE END

POWERLESS #6

POWERLESS

A Composite Graphic Novel exclusive to Absinthe Hour

PAGE SIX

“Breaking and Entering”

1 – Small panel.  James Tulley holds firmly the long neck of an amber bottle of booze, almost completely gone.  The image is set against a dark panel, as if the reader is there in Tulley’s small, dimly lit apartment, sitting with him, poised to finish off the bottle with him.

NARRATOR (JT): They’re calling it a BREAKING and ENTERING GONE ASTRAY.

2 – Small panel.  James Tulley guzzles the bottle like a nervous, reticent young man downing vigorously the right motivation to approach the most beautiful woman at the bar.  Slivers of booze seep from the corners of his mouth and trail down his chin.  Small, quick drops of the cheap liquor wane fast from the tip of his chin.

NARRATOR (JT): A simple SMALL TIME crook looking for JEWLERY to PAWN.

NARRATOR (JT): And I DON’T know WHY.

3 – Small panel.  James Tulley incongruously wipes his mouth with his sleeve.  A glimpse of the television set behind him bares the only light in the apartment.  It reaches out into the darkness of room, reaches out for the attention of James Tulley, whose back is turned on it.

NARRATOR (JT): Maybe Harrison believes in what I’m doing.

4 – Medium Panel.  The television consumes the panel.  The news is on, and a FEMALE NEWS REPORTER sitting at the desk is inauthentic in her reading of the news, even as she reports the most recent of James Tulley’s exploits.  She fixes a small pile of papers appropriately, orderly; taps the bottom of the stack atop the desk with a loose grasp on either side of the pile.

NARRATOR (JT): Believes in the INUNDATED RECKLESSNESS of my approach,

FEMALE NEWS REPORTER: --no signs of our city’s Superhero for days as our city’s crime rate slowly rises.

5 – Medium panel.  With an extended arm and the assistance of one of the chair’s arm rests, James Tulley props himself up weakly and staggers to his feet.  He tosses the empty bottle of booze carelessly to a spot on the floor in front of him.  His clothes, or what can be seen of them under the heavy shadows, are disheveled and tousled.

NARRATOR (JT): Believes in the seemingly MORALLESS, UNINHABITED island of DELIVERANCE on which only I come MARGINALLY close to residing.

6 – Wide panel.  The view of the night from the expansive widow duly acting as a wall at the far end of the apartment reveals a night undisrupted, quiet, and serene.  It’s unruly still, and the full moon hangs large and motionless amongst hovering, stagnant grey clouds.  James Tulley, hunched, overall acrimonious in spirit, as though he were a wobbled puppet disturbed by the inexperience of his controller’s hand, walks meekly into the kitchen.

NARRATOR (JT): I know now, though, why no one does.

7 – Small panel.  James Tulley grabs the handle of the refrigerator, and yanks slightly on it.  A weak, exasperated light funnels out of the small space between the refrigerator door and the refrigerator itself.

NARRATOR (JT): I FEAR he believes in me.

7 – Small panel.  James Tulley’s face basks in the artificial glow of yellow light.  He’s a mess emotionally.  It’s clear he hasn’t been able to sleep—his eyes are barely open and the areas below them sag dramatically.  He’s horribly ridden with a great depression.

NARRATOR (JT): He shouldn’t.

8 – Small panel.  James Tulley grabs a tall, unopened bottle of booze, the only item on the top shelf in the refrigerator.

NARRATOR (JT): I’m no one’s SUPERHERO.

POWERLESS #5

POWERLESS

A Composite Graphic Novel exclusive to Absinthe Hour

PAGE FIVE

“Naïve and Ignorant”

1 – Wide panel.  The broad, concave window which guards the once safe and impregnable living room of an average suburban home allows inquiring eyes to perceive Chief Harrison handing a greatly contorted Captain America action figure to an on-duty police officer beside him.  Monstrous, electric police lights atop a police car stationed just outside impertinently emblazon the corner of the panel and brush delicately with soft ambience the house.

CHIEF HARRISON: Bag it.  Mark as evidence.

NARRATOR (CH): It’s been my biggest fear since James Tulley entered my life.

2 – Medium panel.  Chief Harrison is set off to the side of the panel, staring at the far wall of the house.  It’s aglow in iridescent red from the intruding police car light outside.

NARRATOR (CH): I had dreamt this nightmare so many times before.

3 – Medium panel.  Same image as panel 2, except that the police car light has shifted to a soft blue, which impedes itself upon the wall in place of the once red glare.  But Chief Harrison sees something completely different.  Dark black silhouettes perform the crime against the pattered blue light on the wall: The figure of James Tulley, tall, intimidating, angles a gun at a cowering FAT MAN begging for his life.  The silhouette of a SMALL BOY, no taller the fat man’s waist, chases toward the fat man.

NARRATOR (CH): I had held hope his vigilantism would never carry him so far off.

4 – Small panel.  Close on the small, still hand of a boy lying lifelessly on the carpeted floor of the house.  His small fingers are naturally curled in rigamortis, curled from pinky to forefinger like the crest of an expansive wave which tapers back to sea.  A gun rests a ways away from the hand.  The red glow of the police car drapes over the scene transparently.

NARRATOR (CH): Even if unintentional.

5 – Small panel.  Chief Harrison bends to floor and reaches for the gun in the blue cast of the police car lights.  A silhouetted hand is caught opposite of Chief Harrison’s reaching hand; it quivers uneasily, and Tulley drops the gun all over again.

NARRATOR (CH): I guess I was too naïve and ignorant to think otherwise.

6 – Small panel.  Chief Harrison tucks the gun deeply inside his coat pocket, and does so with trepidation and caution.

NARRATOR (CH): I tell my guys not to tell the press a thing.

NARRATOR (CH): Not to tell anyone anything.

7 – Medium panel.  Chief Harrison walks toward the door, both hands tucked inside his pockets.  He hangs his head low, his shoulders even lower.  The red lights from the police car outside mark his path to the door.

NARRATOR (CH): I tell them I’ll handle the talking,

NARRATOR (CH): and in all my reports, my interviews, my small talk,

8 – Medium panel.  Chief Harrison closes the door of the house behind him.  Another silhouette is caught against the blue light on the door.  It’s of Tulley, hunched and sulked, walking with the same impressing weight as the one Chief Harrison carries; seemingly walking out the door away from the house, just as Chief Harrison had done.

NARRATOR (CH): I don’t mention Tulley.

POWERLESS #4

POWERLESS

A Composite Graphic Novel exclusive to Absinthe Hour

PAGE FOUR

“Hopes and Dreams”

1 – Small panel.  Hazy and faded, like an old, forgotten photograph of the past lost in a dusty shoebox.  A man’s hand grabs a limp, lifeless Captain America doll, similar in style to a Raggedy Andy doll.  Cap’s arms flail behind him as gravity offers it its only recourse.  His legs dangle straight down.

NARRATOR (JT): I’m not Captain America.

2 – Small panel.  Modern day, crystal clean and in the present.  Chief Harrison grabs a Captain America action figure, stiff plastic radically contorting Cap at all its joints; all 32 points of articulations being worked. 

NARRATOR (JT): I can’t slap a star on my chest and an A on my head and feel better.

3 – Long panel.  Chief Harrison stands contemplatively—morose in his demeanor, sadness in his sullen eyes which stare at the action figure in his hands.  POLICE OFFICERS at the end of anopen door in the background of a suburban house share knowledge of the immediate case before them.  Red and blue lights patter the white washed walls.

NARRATOR (JT): It’s FANTASY.  FALSE, and not glorifying in the least.

NARRATOR (JT): It’s DIRTY, depressing.

NARRATOR (JT): Disgusting in more ways than you can ever imagine.

4 – Long panel.  Hazy and faded, in the same nostalgic fashion of the tone and presentation of panel 1.  The man, a police officer set in a seemingly similar location as the one Chief Harrison is investigating in the present, peers over his shoulder at A YOUNG BOY curled, and with his knees hugged close to his chest, on a tall, rustic looking chair.

NARRATOR (JT): Something not fully realized until it’s LIVED through.

5 - Long panel.  Modern day.  A police officer whispers to Chief Harrison, who doesn’t care to angle his head over his shoulder to hear the officer.  Chief Harrison simply stares at the figure in his hands, wildly deranged at all its limbs.  As the police officer talks, Chief Harrison reacts without the demand or insistence of an interested human being, let alone an officer of the law.

NARRATOR (JT): That’s when it all changes.

POLICE OFFICER: It was Tulley, sir.

NARRATOR (JT): When you realize HOPES and DREAMS are as significant as a pulp fantasy,

6 – Long panel.  The past.  The officer extends his arm out to the boy on the chair, offering him his Captain America doll.  The boy, still scared—tears in his eyes, lip quivering—reaches for it cautiously.

NARRATOR (JT): In the end, you realize their notions hold no more weight than the letters used to spell their carriers,

7 – Long Panel.  Modern day.  The Police officer walks away from Chief Harrison, leaving him alone with the disfigured action figure in his hands.  Chief Harrison is motionless, staring at the figure.

NARRATOR (JT): That they’re TRANSPARENT feelings.

8 – Small panel.  The past.  Close on the Captain America doll, the boy’s arms wrapped tightly around it.  The boy squeezes the doll close to his chest, eminently stressing the seam lines which struggle to hold in the doll’s stuffing.

NARRATOR (JT): That they should be tossed away like YESTERDAY’S NEWS,

9 – Small Panel.  Close on Chief Harrison chest.  His tie is as disorderly and unkempt as his sunken shoulders, as the Captain America action figure clinging loosely to his hand, both of which are hung carelessly at his sides.

NARRATOR (JT): Or like an old, ratty RAG DOLL.

POWERLESS #3

POWERLESS

A Composite Graphic Novel exclusive to Absinthe Hour.

PAGE THREE

“Desperate and Afflicted”

1 – Small panel.  Close on a single television in a small, TV shop.  It’s stacked on others, others are stacked on it.  The news is playing and a reporter describes the news James Tulley freshly delivered.  A small preview box at the top of the screen next to the reporter’s head shows an illustration relating to the incident.

NARRATOR (JT): I see the news reports.

2 – Wide panel.  Long shot.  A simple expansion or zoomed-out shot of panel one.  A silhouetted man is focused intently on the array of televisions, which all display a profile shot (from a security camera, for perspective) of James Tulley.  An ELDERLY COUPLE walks into panel, arms linked.

NARRATOR (JT): I hear the people.

OLD WOMAN: He saved another one.  Thank the Good Lord for him.

NARRATOR (JT): They call me a SUPERHERO.

NARRATOR (JT): THEIR superhero.

3 – Medium panel.  James Tulley looks at the backs of the elderly couple who passed by him.  The iridescence of the televisions reaches out for him, touching his face and chest, barely.

NARRATOR (JT): I hate it.

NARRATOR (JT): I’m not FOND of it and I never WANTED it.

NARRATOR (JT): But it’s what THEY need.

4 – Small panel.  Extreme close-up on James Tulley’s half smile.

NARRATOR (JT): What I need.

5 – Small panel.  James Tulley starts away from the television screens, which now have the images of the cops surveying the crime scene at the seven eleven, the bodies covered by blankets, the cops lingering, some loitering.  Maybe only one or two televisions are prominently in view (preferably one).  Tulley is sunken into the popped collar of his jacket, looking off panel.

NARRATOR (JT): This community, it’s overrun by the DESPERATE and AFFLICTED—

6 – Small panel.  A group of litigators and political fat cats share a bottle of Champaign before entering a stretch limo.  Maybe there are a couple of scantly clad prostitutes, maybe not.  Either way, they’re all laughing and having fun.

NARRATOR (JT): EVEN at the HIGHEST level—

NARRATRO (JT): Who simply don’t give A DAMN.

7 – Large panel.  Similar to panel 5.  Tulley is walking straight ahead; his face is a hidden by the night’s natural darkness, for the most part, but his features exude an indefinite amount of determination (through maybe the narrowness of his brows, his strong jaw, his mouth).  The televisions in the back, still playing the news, are unanimously showing Chief Harrison speaking gloomily to the press.  Maybe this time (preferably this time), there are a wealth of televisions visible.

NARRATOR (JT): This community, they need SOLIDITY and STRUCTURE,

NARRATOR (JT): A RELIABLE sense of LAW and ORDER,

NARRATOR (JT): SOMEONE who CARES.

NARRATOR (JT): And if I’m that

NARRATOR (JT): -- THEIR SUPERHERO --

NARRATOR (JT): Than I AIM to deliver PROPER JUSTICE.

NARRATOR (JT): THEIR Justice.

POWERLESS #2

POWERLESS

A Composite Graphic Novel exclusive to Absinthe Hour.

PAGE TWO

“Black and White”

1 – Small panel.  Inside a local police department, a FRANTIC YOUNG OFFICER waves a TROOP of equally FRANTIC OFFICERS ahead.  Papers are flung from desktops as officers toss on their coats.  All rush hurriedly in one direction.

NARRATOR (CHIEF HARRISON): It’s all CLEAR.

2 – Small panel.  Close on the police lightbars; reds and blues flash with relentless purpose.

NARRATOR (CH): BLACK and WHITE.

NARRATOR (CH): LAW and ORDER.

3 – Small panel.  Inside the police car, POLICE CHIEF HARRISON is calm, almost sedated, but positively morose, lost in the open folder of files in his lap.  Meanwhile, the scene around him is hysterically unrestrained.  The OTHER OFFICER, who is driving the car, is shouting at the two-way radio furiously and with a heightened panic.  Lights from the other cars leave a trail zigzagging outside the window like artificial strokes of lightning.

NARRATOR (CH): That’s how it’s SUPPOSED to be, but it never is.

NARRATOR (CH): Not EVER with him.

4 – Small panel.  A look inside shows a picture of Tulley, not unlike a photo taken for a driver’s license, clipped to a hefty sized bundle of papers.  He is average in looks and in no way sinister.  He even has a half-smile in the photo.  Underneath the photograph are various police reports, biographical information, and other files we can’t see.

 

NARRATOR (CH): His name is JAMES TULLEY.

NARRATOR (CH): The people call him their SUPERHERO.

5 – Small panel.  Over the shoulder of Chief Harrison, and through the windshield of the patrol car, the car’s broad headlights separate the darkness with ease and capture three men (from page one) as they lay motionless on the pavement in front of the alley next to the convenient store.  The girl (from page one) sits on the ground in front of the store holding her knees to her chest.

NARRATOR (CH): The law calls him a KILLER.

NARRATOR (CH): I HATE that he does it.

6 – Small panel.  Close on the girl’s face; her mascara has run down her face, her hair is disheveled, her bottom lips quivers, but she’s become hardened and she’s alive.

NARRATOR (CH): Because it makes HUNTING him that much harder.

7 – Small panel.  Chief Harrison wraps a blanket over the girl’s shoulders and leads her to an ambulance, which is not seen on this panel.  ANOTHER OFFICER approaches from off panel, and Chief Harrison glances toward him.

NARRATOR (CH): When you think about it, when you boil it all down,

CHIEF HARRISON: Take her statement.

NARRATOR (CH): The only thing separating this VIGILANTE and a cop is the PAPERWORK,

8 – Small panel.  Close on the patrol car’s equipment console.  The windshield and the action in the distance through that windshield are in view.

Chief Harrison’s hand grasps the radio firmly.

Through the windshield, the car’s headlights catch everything.  The officer from panel seven is caringly leading the girl to an ambulance, which hasn’t appeared on panel yet.

NARRATOR (CH): and on night like THESE,

9 – Small panel.  The patrol car’s lights are still blinking vibrantly.  Chief Harrison leans on the open passenger door and tests the length of the radio’s wire as he calls the local station.  He’s somber in tone and expression.  Behind him, the girl is sitting on the back of the ambulance, staring at a nondescript spot on the concrete in front of her.  The police offer who has tended to her is trying to ask her questions.

NARRATOR (CH): it’s really not hard to rather be him wearing a cape

CHIEF HARRISON: Put out an APB on TULLEY

CHIEF HARRISON: Last spotted at Seventh and Walnut.

NARRATOR (CH): Than me wearing a badge.

POWERLESS

POWERLESS
A Composite Graphic Novel exclusive to Absinthe Hour

PAGE ONE

“Smoke and Mirrors”

1 – Small panel.  Very close on the bulb of a street light, which is barely lit, dull, hazy, and uninspiring.

NARRATOR (JAMES TULLEY): It's just A DREAM.

2 – Wide panel.  Long shot.

It's a dark night.  Ominously unsettling.  Treacherously chilling.  The external glow of greens and oranges of a Seven-Eleven, which is either closed or out of business, patters the night sky delicately. 

A street

light next to the convenient store knows only how to flicker on and off, dimming and shinning in radically contradicting ways.  Caught under the bright shine of the street light's exasperating fervor is a set of SMALL, SHADOWED FIGURES; THREE MEN with cocky, demanding postures chase a WOMAN, frazzled and frightened.

In the parking lot, which is close the reader's point-of-view.  A puddle's ripples catches quaint glimpses of the lamp's light.

NARRATOR (JT): A bunch of SUPERLATIVES main staging an INSECURE sense of a tangible IDEALISM.

NARRATOR (JT): SMOKE and MIRRORS set up for you to see only the smoke,

 3 – Small panel.  A boot stomps on the puddle.  The light from the street lamp has dimmed.

NARRATOR (JT): And MISS the reflection of YOURSELF in the mirrors behind it.

4 – Long panel.  The light of the street lamp angles narrowly in an alley.  Just ahead of the light, the woman has a short lead on her predators as she looks back to see them fast approaching.  She's terrified.

NARRATOR (JT): Some wander these streets not knowing what's down a dark alley.

NARRATOR (JT): Not WANTING to know.

5 – Small panel.  The high heel of the woman's shoe snaps and she falls, tumbling ahead.

NARRATOR (JT): Yet there us few who WANT to know

6 – Long panel, similar to panel four.  The woman tries to prop herself off the ground.  She's surrounded at this point.  A trash can has been knocked down, garbage has littered the alley.  OUR PROTAGONIST, JAMES TULLEY, is set off to the side of the panel (the silhouette of his leg) and has made his way to the alley.

NARRATOR (JT): Who PRETEND we can see our reflection through the haze.

7 – This should be the largest panel on the page.  Tulley is fantastically powerful in this panel and terrifically employed in action.  He's kicking one thug in the abdomen, knocking him back into a brick wall, and he's punching another in the face with his fist.  Further in the alley, the woman sits on the ground propped up by her arm, watching.  She's partially amazed and partially frightened.  The other thug is maybe charging up on him from behind, or possibly just there.

NARRATOR (JT): But maybe the ignorant AREN'T so ignorant,

NARRATOR (JT): Maybe somehow we're the IGNORANT ONES.

NARRATOR (JT): Still believing, still HOPING -- THAT SOMEHOW -- In some

SMALL WAY

NARRATOR (JT): During some seemingly SMALL INTERACTION

NARRATOR (JT): In an equally seemingly INISIGNIFICANT MOMENT

NARRATOR (JT): There's always something -- SOMEHOW -- we can do

8 – Small panel.  Tulley's hand holding a gun firmly.

NARRATOR (JT): TO HELP.

Sunday Comix 2

"Not Exactly Batmaning It Up"

Illustrated by: Philip McNulty
Written by: Patrick McNulty

Sunday Comix

An Easy Decision


Written by Patrick McNulty
Illustrated by Philip McNulty (Philip McNulty Illustration Blog)

May I use Your Toothbrush

I would wear your panties,
if I could,
but I’m not a frills and lace kind of guy,
and I couldn’t strap on your bra
because it just doesn’t offer me proper support.
I would walk in your high heels,
but I have already broken the high of your heels
one too many times.
Your skirt wears like Larry Bird’s shorts
and I bust your blouse like the Hulk does his shirt.

But your bathroom is a playground of
eyeliner, lipstick, and blush.
In the morning,
when we wake, tangled together
by our legs, our arms, and your sheets,
and I see my toothbrush next to yours,
you in the bedroom,
shimmying into your dress
explicitly exotic,
unknowingly erotic,
I reach for the toothpaste
and pick up your toothbrush.

Communists are Bacon Lovers, Too

This is a snippet of the story I'm trying to get published right now.


There's something I should tell you, comrade, so let me start from the beginning.
I offered Vladimir a cigarette, but he did not take it. He showed me a Lux. I offered him a light, the least for which he took graciously from me, and it pleased me immensely. A small, red glow ignited the grey, ashy tip of his Lux as he drew in a deliberate and sensitive breath. I asked him if he could recite some of his poetry, some of my favorites, from "Morning" to "Night," "To His own Beloved Self." He began with the latter and I sat there like a dumb child. He read it with such depravity, such contrition—just so disconsolately—it made my eyes well with small tears. But there was such a freshness and sincerity to it all. It was simply magnificent.
"Were I as quiet as thunder," Vladimir said, "how I'd wail and whine!"
I lifted the loose crimson mask dangling over my head above my nose and pursed my lips. I raised the cigarette to my lips as Vladimir continued to traipse the delicate lines of his poetry over the small curves of smoke in the air. I should apologize if my words become too whimsical at times. I'm not particularly a poet—a far cry from one, actually—but it's hard to ignore the temptations of poetry's waters when such a great artist is sitting next to you. I don't know. I feel a little embarrassed even trying. But, it is Mayakovsky! Mayakovsky!
"If I were as dim as the sun, night I'd drill with the rays of my eyes."
I laughed heartily and mightily, and I'm sure Vladimir thought me insane. But he didn't stutter in his reading. He didn't even look at me crooked. What a true comrade!
I took another inhalation of cigarette smoke as Vladimir recited the last line. "…by what Goliaths was I begot—I, so big and by no one needed."
I know that particular poem ends with a question, but every time I hear it or read it, it always sounds more like a statement to me. I lifted my mask and took a mighty inhalation of the cigarette and breathed it slowly out into the air. My mask fell carelessly over my mouth and I felt disrespectful when I turned to Vladimir and, with a smile, nodded to him. I felt badly about it—not letting him see my smile, that is. I assume he didn't. I should have lifted my mask to show him how enlightened I was—even after hearing that poem for what amounted to an insurmountable number of times. It is refreshing to me every time I hear it, like a cool breeze on a lukewarm day. I'm sure it went without mentioning to Vladimir, of course. But oftentimes, it is necessary to hear. I suppose I'll tell him tomorrow.
I dug into my coat pocket. I grabbed an ancient, eight-times folded poster with the intentions of unraveling it in front of Vladimir and telling him the story behind it. It was a fascinating story, one I wanted dearly to tell Vladimir, but everyday was the same. I'd be interrupted by a knock on the train car door and I'd never tell him the history behind the poster.
Today was no different.
A knock on the door abruptly stalled my story before I could even begin it. Bogolomov, who was a small man in height and stature with a grey bristle ring of hair surrounding the completely hairless, polished tip of his head, entered the train car with a fair amount of trepidation.
"Is it prepared, Bogolomov?" I asked.
He nodded, and his nervous, antsy eyes stumbled into their natural frenzy. He was quite fidgety, so I always felt compelled to be stern with him, which is why I asked him if it was ready rather coldly. You must know he is quite a good man, a man I trusted my life with during the War. He is also a confident man, but he hasn't shown it since we made our journey to America. He is the kind of man who needs to be treated with a fair firmness. It's all to build him up, to remind him that—no matter where he is—he is still the same Bogolomov inside; the comrade I relied so heavily on in Russia; the comrade who was fearless, dignified, and self assured. But it has taken longer than I had hoped. And watching his pupils dance in his head like that, it's unnerving.
"Yes, Comrade—"
"No." The grey tip of my cigarette burst red. "It's Captain, Bogolomov."
Bogolomov's uneasy, nervous eyes fluttered rapidly. He avoided my eyes—my only facial feature unhidden by the deep red cowl—like a ship avoiding the onslaught of a hurricane. "Of course, Captain." His cheeks became rosy. He shook his head in disgust and a wavering, uncomfortable smile took shape on his face. "My apologies."
I took one final inhalation of the cigarette and released its smoke slowly. "You were saying?" I flicked the edge of the cigarette with my thumb violently. Ash crumbled into a thousand small, irrelevant pieces, its descent hardly noticeable.
"The new poster is ready," Bogolomov said.

He Walked on Down the Hall

He Walked on Down the Hall

Pictures, like time frozen,
two members of Victoria
take sips from small, icy glasses.
Another
of the same two
hold hands in a field
ghostly
like the world were none
but made for two,
like a table set with
one candle
two plates.
There
in the musk of a
café past
a slow song
—
bellowing voice
barely electric guitar
nervous symbols
—
a soft insanity
of
ambiance
of
him who
dropped them gently
and
lost
them
in the
entangle-
ment
of her coarse
brown hair.
He who
walked on down the hall
alone.

The Tragedy of Hedonism

Here's a small vignette for you all, entitled:

The Tragedy of Hedonism

The corridor stretched beyond comprehension as I was led down the dark, despondent hall by two husky goons. They didn't tell me much of the what or the why of their actions. In fact, they didn't even gasp or sigh or moan as they waltzed into my house and marched down the basement to apprehend me. They just did. It was, after all, Stalin's Motherland.
A light bulb on a single string of dim lights down the hall flickered as we approached it. I watched, as it consumed moths and mosquitoes, repressing and extirpating the life of the insects, swallowing them whole in the flashes of darkness. I searched for remnants of them, something that could prove to me that they were once a part of life, but any signs of wings, antennas—even their charged bulbous eyes—were gone. Either lost to the tight, thin air or hidden by the dust and cobwebs coating the cracks in the concrete floor and the musty brick wall.
The large, intimidating guard jabbed me sharply in the back and pointed ahead. I stumbled over my feet as I continued down the tedious hall. I looked back at the other guard. He, too, pointed ahead.
I ran through my mind the events of the days, weeks, even the months before. I internally wondered who I crossed, what I had told people, either in passing or when engaged in deep conversation. I tried remembering to whom I smiled or frowned upon. I questioned what song I sang in the shower last night. My mind could not raise one damned red flag. Nothing about me was unordinary or out of line. Nothing.
An iridescent green glow at the head of the hall made me nervous. We were approaching the conclusion of this path and I immediately wanted to turn back and watch more bugs sizzle in the light behind me. My knees shivered and my legs became instant goo. A darkness slowly enshrouded my vision, a blindness induced by fear or the want for comfort. I shook my head rapidly to regain sight. The green light was brighter, more vibrant, and the large Russian behind me placed his hand on my shoulder and forced me to turn the corner.
The light was blinding, burning my retinas and singeing away all of my sensations but fear.
"Sit down," a deep voice said.
And, when coerced by my new comrades, I did just that.
I squinted in an effort to look through the green light at my mysterious captor. I could not decipher much of the man not two feet in front of me. I caught only a glimpse of a Russian army cap and shoulder pads. Otherwise, I discovered he smoked Herzoginva Flor.
"I imagine you are intrigued as to why you are here," he said. "Well, my friend, the answer is relatively simple and borderline cliché: you have something we want."
I raised my arm over my eyes to shield from the ever-persistent green light.
"Please," he said, "keep both hands on the table."
I did as I was told. My heart pounded.
"I have been told you are a simple man versed only in the pleasures of butchery. Skilled with a knife, unafraid to mutilate the dead, undeterred to wear the blood of your victims on the whites of your sleeves."
"Well," I said, "technically—"
"In times like these," he said, "you know, with the Americans threatening, we could use an assassin with your talent."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Please, please, do not be so modest, Mr. Konev."
"No, "I said, "it's not that. I'm not Mr. Konev. My name is Konon, the owner of Meats Meats Meats at the corner of Vetoshnyy pereulok."
"Oh, really?" His toned changed and his voice cracked slightly, like a prepubescent school child. "Oh. Then this is an awful mistake."
He waved his hand next to his head and the green light switched off. The room's natural light exposed his face—for the worse, I might add. His face was scarred by deep, inset wrinkles and his eyes bulged like a warped beast from a Kafka story.
"This is most embarrassing," he said. "Clearly…" he paused and chuckled in a most uncomfortable way. "Clearly, you are not him."
He dug into his pockets and rummaged about in a fidgety way.
"Here." He removed a crumbled, seemingly sandy pack of Flor from his pocket and pushed it into my chest. There was one cigarette left. I was curious as to why there was more sand than cigarettes. Nonetheless, it was still a Flor.
"Take this as an apology," he said, forcing the pack more deeply into my chest. Grains of white sand trickled from the open sores of the bottom of the pack and formed a relatively large ant hill in front of my feet. "It's so…" he said, shaking his head, "just so embarrassing."
"Please," I said, "it's alright." I took the unscrupulously handled pack. There was still a perfectly fine Flor remaining. "This is more than enough."
"Perfect." He tapped both of my shoulders twice with his large, bristle hands and smiled. "Let me light that for you, Comrade."
I nodded, and plucked the cigarette from the pack and pursed my lips. He raised a pistol from his hip and shot the end of the cigarette. The bullet must have pierced my neck, or grazed my Adam's apple. I must have impulsively grabbed for my neck as I fell to the floor. To be honest, I didn't even feel the blood on my hands. I just saw it, and sort of rubbed it inquiringly with my thumb into my forefinger.
"Dispose of the body," the man said casually to the two goons who brought me in.
I looked at the cigarette, which was still intact and smoldering. I was surprised at how well it was preserved after receiving a gunshot to its head. I figured my captor must have been a horrible shot.
My eye sight was slowly fading, and everything was become hazy and arbitrary. I couldn't even feel the men's hands under my armpits, couldn't feel my heels sliding in staggered zigzags to the hall where moths had received the same disparaging end. And then, there in front of my face was the swaying, sensual smell of the cigarette smoke.
I raised the cigarette to my lips. Hell, it was still a perfectly fine Flor.

Take a Seat, Have a Drink

Absinthe Hour used to have a ubiquitous definition. It was a place where artists, poets, and writers gathered to enjoy the company of friends, a time that had no time frame, and a drink that fortified a culture.
This is Absinthe Hour. I do not claim to be an artist. I do not feel comfortable enough to call myself and poet or a writer, but I am hesitant to even think that I am not one. There is much to feeling and sensation, but at their roots, there are the very core essentials that are cemented into the ground. I know who I'd like to be, and I know what I'd like to aspire to be. I know that I would very much like to tell you, fine readers, I have unraveled the mysteries of my own future and the gold bridge I see before me will lead me to my prosperous destination. But I would like modesty to be the legs that lead me across it.
The future is unwritten, as are the writings that will follow this post. I simply know what I desire. I know that desires are simple, and I know the means to reach those aspirations can be treacherous, aggravating, and frustrating. The process itself is a blend of hot riot and steamy satisfaction. But, I most certainly know that there is no better reward than the entirely new emotion created for you when you succeed, and when you create.
I want to sit at an old table at a café. I want the euphoria of a cold drink in a glass sweating the endless beads of a never ending cocktail. I want to laugh with the jokers and weep with the weak. I want to throw myself at the wind and see how far it takes me. I want to pass out in an alley with a pal. I want to wake up, and do it again.
I want the essence of Absinthe Hour today. And I'll have a drink again tomorrow.