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“Not going home” by Graham Irvin

July 10, 2019June 5, 2019 Back Patio PressLeave a comment

A man walked into the internet cafe. Inside the mall. Brown carpet. The walls were wood paneling. The man paid the cashier for an hour. He sat in front of a thick computer. He watched a video somewhere online. His niece blew out candles on a cake. She pushed yellow and brown handfuls into her mouth. It could have been his granddaughter. There were people talking in the video. He didn’t recognize the voices. He wore an unwashed felt hat. It smelled like a body. He had on tall leather boots that curled at the toes. He watched videos for songs he used to know. He felt soulless. Nothing made sense anymore. Sound was wrong. It felt like having a conversation. He opened a chat window and sent a message to a name. He asked the name what it was wearing. He told the name what to do. He told the name what he would do. His legs ached like a balloon. His time ran out. The man walked to the food court. He watched a boy sitting at a table. The boy moved like a glitch. He had a yellow crust around his mouth and nose. He made a sound like an engine starting. He smelled more like a body than anyone else. He smiled the way a baby laughed. The man wanted to take away the thing that made him happy. He wanted to wade in the boy’s body smell until he was sick. The man stood in line for food. There was sand in the tiles on the floor. A woman stood in front of him. She had a mushroom tattooed on her ankle. Her feet glowed like jewelry. Everyone stepped forward. The space around the woman smelled animal. Everyone needed a shower. Something had to wash off. He sat down with his plate. His insides hurt like a clock. Like his skin could bleed with a touch. He took the phone out of his pocket. There was a picture of the girl from the video when he opened it. He didn’t know the numbers to call anymore. Conversation was a sickness. A spoon scraped out the words in his head. The shapes in front of him looked all wrong. He wasn’t hungry anymore. Something sharp was wrapped in plastic on the table. He felt everyone dare him to use it. He was an exhibit in a zoo. The lights in the parking lot turned off. Someone with a mop said lift your feet. The man stared at the nothing of their face. He felt like the last human left. He walked outside. He moved toward home.

♦◊♦

Mom worked at the hospice behind main street. Everyone was dying. She was on second shift feeding the world pain medicine. It was almost dinner. I walked into her office and got on the computer. I opened a chat window. No one good was on. I tried anyway. TexasMac68 sent a message. I replied. I told him I just got home from school. I told him I’m wearing a white shirt and boxers. He told me ‘touch yourself’. He asked me are you wearing the cowboy boots? It felt like a joke. Like he wasn’t real. I thought he was making fun of me. I told him I’m wearing brown ones. I told him they smell like bodies in a locker room. I told him I’m taking everything off except the boots. He sent photos of a man standing in front of a red barn. He sent a link to a western website. He told me these are the ones I’m wearing now. It was starting to get good. He signed off without saying goodbye. I walked into my bedroom. I pulled a bag out of my desk. I packed a bowl and put it in my pocket. The neighbor mowed his grass. He wore clear glasses so rocks couldn’t blind him. He looked asleep. I couldn’t smoke with him outside. I wanted the mower blades to fire rocks into his memories. I drove to the park by the YMCA. Kids stood in the creek that cut through the park. The water was the color of pennies and eye glitter. Crawfish hid in the corners of the creek. Their claws made the kids scream. There was a group party at a picnic table. A woman cut a slice of cake. There were kids and other women around her. She gave the cake to a little girl. I walked into the bathroom. It smelled like shit and chlorine. Like a locker room. I put the lighter up to the bowl. I held in the smoke until it came out invisible. I walked back out fast. I did not look at the party. I wanted them to forget me. My car was surrounded by activity buses. I couldn’t unlock the door. The key didn’t fit and then it did. I felt like a thief. My brain was a warzone. I couldn’t go home. Music made it worse. Like scalpels cutting through my jaw. Like chewing a battery. It started to get dark. I drove to the thrift store downtown. The ceiling was too high. The lights made my eyes boil. Everything smelled like a hospital. Everyone died in their clothing. Every movie played blue over a cadaver’s face. The shoes were ancient and covered in dust. I thought about a locker room again. Opening the metal door and finding shoes without a body. There was a pair of black cowboy boots. With metal toe caps and twirls etched in. Roses embroidered up the ankles. I pushed my foot inside. My mood felt destroyed. It felt like punishment. I laughed hot tears down my face. I wanted to wear them and nothing else. I wanted to look so boring. Like I was in on the joke. The cashier didn’t look at me. He wouldn’t make me real. He put the boots in a bag. I drove back home. I through the bag on my bed. I took everything off. Mom was still at work. I stared at myself in her closet mirror. I felt tall and thin. I felt pretty. I got back on the computer. TexasMac68 wasn’t there. I sent him a message anyway. I told him I’m wearing the boots. I told him for real this time. They look so good. I can send a picture. He didn’t respond.

♦◊♦

The road was orange and black. The road was grey and blonde. Two orbs smaller than the night. Everything felt like a dream. Like she was just waking up. The woman’s head was heavier than the sun. She kept watching her hands on the steering wheel. Nothing else made sense. She had to get home. She was getting home. She was almost home. The car drove itself. Floating in a sea of confidence. The sidewalk split her front tire. Her neck pulled left then right. Something big came across the windshield. The car moved over it. It broke fast under the car. Everything stopped hard. Forked by a street light. There was a smell like ozone. Her ears kept ringing. Like muffled crying. Nothing worked. The engine didn’t turn over. Smoke like a blanket. There was red on the windshield. Someone stood outside across the street. Their body small from her window. They stared at something on the ground. A piece of the man. The woman crawled out of her car. There was more. Behind. His legs wrapped like a wire. One boot missing. She couldn’t see his face. It was somewhere in the grass. His hat still nearby. The person across the street held a phone. They described the car. The man. The woman said no. Her insides turned hot. She couldn’t move quick enough. There was something wrong in her legs. She couldn’t look at them. She wanted to go back to sleep. To be home again. She thought I can still make it. If I can just get away from the road. Hide until it’s over. Her palm was on a piece of the man. It felt like sponge cake. It was still warm. It felt like a kitten purring. She pulled the bag from her pocket. Tried to make it as small as possible. It tasted like pollen and sweat. Plastic stuck to the sides of her mouth. Tears moved down her face. The bag dropped into her stomach. The ground turned red and blue. She was pulled off the ground. Someone in black put handcuffs on the woman. She watched people take photos of the man across the road. People in white picked up his pieces. They put him into a bag. Then more people. Vans and cameras and microphones. Someone was standing by the woman’s window. Screaming. Her mouth moved without sound. Crying. The people with the cameras asked questions. She talked about the woman in the handcuffs. She said I hope she dies slow for what she did. He didn’t deserve this. He was good to our children. It’s all gone. She deserves to rot. Forever. No sunlight. She’s less than. Human. Everything I love. Gone. The cameras and microphones pulled away. The vans left. The car that the woman sat in pulled away. The person driving said that’s it for you. They’re going to tear you apart. The woman didn’t feel like crying. She started to cry. Deep down there was warmth. They’re going to tear you apart.

—

Graham Irvin lives in North Carolina. His prose has appeared in Apathy Press, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, and Philosophical Idiot. His poetry is forthcoming or has appeared in Punk Lit Press, Philosophical Idiot, Maudlin House, and Soft Cartel. Follow him on twitter @grahamjirvin.

“Jazz Manouche” by Patricia Bidar

July 8, 2019June 5, 2019 Back Patio PressLeave a comment

I was headed into the main restaurant to meet my girl Conchett’. But I spied an open door. When a door’s badly shut, or propped with a chair or a matchbook, I need to take a look.

Inside sat half a dozen ladies, in a horseshoe configuration. A meeting of some kind. In the door I pop, as they’re winding down their flag salute. The head lady waves me over. She’s in a cream-colored turtleneck and plaid slacks. Crinkly eyes from smiling a lot. The two at the curve of the horseshoe make room for me between them.

I’d lost my glasses, so I subordinated myself to them. I had to, since I couldn’t see! I soon had one of them reading me the list of sandwiches while her friend related the story of her recent trip to Austin, New Orleans and Memphis, Tennessee.

In these situations, you follow a girl’s lead. I told them I wouldn’t mind heading off on one of those senior citizen trips. You only have to be 50 to get in on those dances and movie nights and getaways in our town.

How old do you think I look?

This wine bar has a hundred types of vino lined up. Framed photos of Django Reinhardt. Red wallpaper. Sprightly jazz manouche playing. None of the ladies is ordering up any wine, so I follow their leads and sip ice water.

Then the first sister says, we are all sorry as can be about Diane. I look around and at blurry lady shapes. What the hell is happening right now?

“I can hardly think about it,” I manage and hang my head. Then I get it. Something has happened to their friend. And her name was Diane. I am all right. I’ve got money in my pocket. A sexy Sicilian waiting for me in the restaurant. I am fine.

But I need to tell you. My first love’s name was Diane. A nice girl with a ponytail and a taste for the wilder life. I was already in my twenties when she and I met at the bank where she worked as a teller. Younger people don’t believe we used to smoke everywhere back then. Banks, markets, theatres. But it wasn’t a regular cigarette I slipped to Diane.

She rang my bell at ten that night. She’d gotten shitcanned from her job at the bank. When the bell rang, I was painting. My heart swimming in syrup, the room awash in the stink of gesso and paint and a man’s body.

Well, she and I dove for each other like Stanley and Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire. You know that scene where he is hollering for her in the rain and she runs out and he picks her up high against him and she runs her nails hard and deep on his wet skin. Diane and I didn’t leave my room for four days. My dealer brought us the heroin and big to-go bucket of soup.

I knew Conchett’ wouldn’t wait. She is not a girl you leave to her own devices. Still, I stayed there in the wine bar, fully committed to my BLT and water goblet and the ladies. I sat and took in stories of their sweet Diane and all she meant to them.

I also learned about the man she met who she thought would give her a golden second life, but that he’d turned out to be a rat and a creep. And one shitty thing had led to another and then she swallowed a bottle of pills.

My two new lady friends, one on either side, held me when I buckled, crying.

I know my Diane was years ago and another person entirely. It’s just that I learned this thing and I learned it with finality: The grief of women this age, it comes to me, is a thing of melancholy. Bigger than a work of art.

It underlies their stories, their outfits and manicures and anecdotes about getaways. The laugh lines, the facing-it-all-by-not-drinking. Or by drinking. A woman’s long history of loss and sacrifice particularly for their children and the men they have loved.

The crinkly eyes. The smiles. The jazz. All of it.

—

Patricia Q. Bidar is a native Californian with roots in New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona. She is a former fiction reader for Northwest Review, and alum of the UC Davis graduate writing program. Her stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Sou’wester, Wigleaf, The Citron Review, Jellyfish Review, Barren Literary Magazine, Soft Cartel and Okay Donkey, among other places. In addition to writing fiction, Patricia serves as a writer for progressive national and regional nonprofit organizations.

Her Twitter handle is @patriciabidar.

“$200 Super Sandwich” by Christine Alexander

July 7, 2019July 1, 2019 Back Patio PressLeave a comment

“I’m a newlywed and an insurance secretary and I live

in San Fernando Valley.”

If I were a different girl, with a different face, in a different time

that might’ve been me

Nestled happily into obscurity, my fifteen minutes in matching sweatshirts

on Supermarket Sweep.

I am yanking hairs from my face in the Star Market parking lot

I am meeting a man who’ll give me some money

I am untethered by motherhood,

plumes of venomous smoke swirling around the front seat

But you want a woman you can take care of things.

I can pose prettily, I can arch my back willingly

I say to you “fill me,” and I mean it.

She is inside filling up the cart

She is making you a $200 Super Sandwich

But I know you’ll still be hungry.

—

Christine Alexander is a writer from Gloucester, MA. Her work has appeared in Barren Magazine, The Penmen Review, and High Shelf Press.

twitter: @d0llypop

‘where the heart ends up is a kind of funny place after all’ by Kyla Houbolt

July 7, 2019June 18, 2019 Back Patio PressLeave a comment

the heart
is a great pilgrimage toward God
a muscle the size of a caravan
an endless story told to an evil tyrant
in hope of something like escape
or at least a meal and a dry bed

on pilgrimage the heart
hears many stories, believes them all
and then believes only some
and finally believes none
because the path goes on
and on and on

and the heart is weary
of all this brouhaha about itself and about
the God it has ceased to seek
yet it can’t seem to just stop and simply
melt into the side of the road

and the awareness comes to it
gradually v. gradually that that
can’t-stopness may itself be
the sought God the electrical
pulsing of something that is not time
but an alive ongoingness

and what does the heart do then?

The heart laughs
and says

God
only
knows

—

Kyla Houbolt lives and writes in Gastonia, NC. She’s got various words published online, some in Black Bough Poetry, Barren Magazine, Juke Joint Magazine, and other places. When she’s not writing she can often be found spacing out somewhere, under a tree if she can find one. You can follow Kyla on Twitter @luaz_poet.

Two Flash Pieces by Bram Riddlebarger

July 5, 2019July 1, 2019 Back Patio PressLeave a comment

The Complete History of the United States of America

The piston rod shot through the engine like the news of a divorce. We didn’t bother to ask for the TV. Wyoming was that kind of place.

“AND YOU CAN KEEP THE MATTRESS!”

On the ride back east, the bus was filled with the shadows of passengers, who sat in their seats like the British were coming.

♦◊♦

Your Feet Can Take You Anywhere

He scraped his feet across the worn linoleum floor. His calluses whispered faintly like a song issuing forth from a theater as you stand outside in the gutter. Small scraps of delight while dirty rainwater runs freely over your feet. His calluses were made of La bohème, but he dreamed of Hamilton like the American shore.

—

Bram Riddlebarger is the author two novels, Earplugs (Livingston Press) and Golden Rod (Cabal Books).

“Ad Infinitum” by Timothy Tarkelly

July 5, 2019June 5, 2019 Back Patio PressLeave a comment

Landon sat on his Tuesday afternoon couch, discussing the six days that had passed since last Tuesday.

“You know better than anyone, I am just angry all the time and it hurts my feelings that people think it’s a disposition I just have, or a choice that I make every morning. My bed doesn’t have a ‘wrong side.’ It’s the only place I feel anything other than anger anymore, except for the other day, of course,” which is why he had scheduled his first appointment, why he finally took the advice his sister had given him a million times. This was Landon’s first therapist ever, and no matter how many Tuesdays he spent on that couch, he was visibly nervous, rolling his collector’s coin (that he specially ordered) along the edge of his index finger, teetering it back and forth, teasing. Then, he twirled it under his finger, to repeat the process ad infinitum.

“I was on the train, on my way home from work.”

“Do you take the same route every day?” the therapist asked, in her calm, inquisitive, but non-prying manner. Landon could listen to her talk for ages. Now that he was thinking about it, he had never felt angry at his therapist, either, but probably for obvious reasons.

“Now, I do. I tried mixing it up for a while. I was told that variety would calm my nerves, or whatever. So now, I take the same bus to the Metra station, then the train that goes out of the city. And I was on, trying to read, but not trying too hard and for some reason, I just get mad every time someone gets on the train, like ‘who the fuck is this guy and why does he need to be here,’ or ‘she BETTER not sit next to me.’” He stopped to bury his face in his palms. “It’s embarrassing, I know.”

“You don’t have to be embarrassed. I’m not judging you.”

But Landon was embarrassed and by saying he shouldn’t be embarrassed, he felt that the therapist was judging him. He wondered if he was feeling anger towards his therapist, or if it was just at the situation. Isn’t that always the case? And now that he thought about it, she didn’t say he shouldn’t be embarrassed, but that he didn’t have to be, so he took a deep breath and moved on.

“It makes me feel bad. Even in the moment. I don’t like being mad at them. They didn’t do anything wrong. I am not angry at them, it is just at the situation.”

“Right.”

“But what situation am I angry at?”

They both waited for the silence to provide an answer, or at least a thread to pull the conversation forward.

“You said that you weren’t angry the other day.”

“Yeah, it was so weird. This guy…I don’t even know. Maybe, he was just so mad that it sucked all of it up, like it created a vacuum.”

“A rage vacuum,” she said with a small, but noticeable mouth-corner smile and jotted it down. Landon liked when she did this: acknowledged not only how clever he was, but his ability to be clever, even when he is constantly living in a bubble of fury. “So, he was angry.”

“Yes. I mean, I assume so. He seemed angry. He looked the way I think I must look all the time.”

“And you felt what when you saw him?”

“I am having trouble really understanding what I felt. At first, I was upset in the usual way. This guy is on MY bus, feeling MY emotions. I felt like I was trying to do my thing, but then this guy came in to do a blatant impression of me. It was offensive.”

“But that obviously can’t be true,” she said.

“I know, and I said that to myself pretty quick, but I still just kept watching him, probably in an obvious way. And then, someone else got on the train and he lit up. Just bubbled with real, red-faced lividity.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah and I just sat there, watching him. I wanted to comfort him. Sit next to him. Kiss him on the cheeks the way brothers do in mobster movies. At least, talk to him. You know? Like, ‘I get it. I do, I get this. Me and you, man, me and you.’”

“Did you say anything?”

He let his cheeks puff as he exhaled. “Nah. I just let him go.”

She gave him a small, but noticeable mouth-corner frown. She didn’t write anything down this time.

—

Visual Art by Stuart Buck

July 4, 2019July 1, 2019 Back Patio PressLeave a comment

—
Stuart Buck is a poet and artist living in North Wales. His debut collection of poetry, Casually Discussing the Infinite, peaked at 89 on Amazons World Poetry chart and his second book ‘Become Something Frail ‘will be released on Selcouth Station Press in 2019. When he is not writing or reading poetry, he likes to cook, juggle and listen to music. He suffers terribly from tsundoku – the art of buying copious amounts of books that he will never read.

twitter: stuartmbuck

available work

“The Event” by T.J Larkey

July 3, 2019June 6, 2019 Back Patio Press1 Comment

My girlfriend gave me a look that made it hard for me to say no.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”

She looked happy.

“Yeah! I promise we’ll have fun. And please wear your suit, it’s going to be kinda fancy.”

It was some kind of charity event that my girlfriend’s Mother had to go to. And her Mother didn’t want to go alone so she invited my girlfriend. Who then invited me. The word “event” made me feel anxious (I was not a person invited to events) but I wanted to make her happy. There was also the promise of a three-course meal, very lavish, very free, so it was settled. We were going to the event.

Walking in, the first thing I saw was a small woman dressed like a gymnast in the middle of the event. She was twirling high in the air, supported only by a big long piece of fabric. She would wrap her legs around the fabric and dangle and twirl. Mesmerizing. I thought, this is what it means to be an event person.

When we sat down at our assigned table, my girlfriend and I couldn’t stop staring at her.

“I don’t want to watch,” my girlfriend said. “I’m so worried she’s going to fall. But I can’t stop watching.”

“We’ll both watch,” I said. “And if she falls, we can be the first responders.”

The other people at the event were paying no attention to the gymnast. Like they were used to this kind of entertainment. It made me suspicious of them. And they were well dressed and looked like people I should not be allowed in a room with, so, naturally, I had my guard up.

“Or, if it makes you feel better,” I said. “Look away and I’ll watch her.”

“Oooh,” she winced. “But I can’t look away. She better be getting paid a lot.”

My girlfriend was always concerned with this kind of thing. She always tips 30% and cares for the well-being of others more than her own.

“You want to tip her don’t you?”

“Well,” she said, staring. “I would if they gave her a break! Her arms must be exhausted!”

I looked down at the table. There was a menu describing the three-course meal that would be served, and another itinerary listing names of short films and directors I’d never heard of. Each film was scheduled to play at the same time each course was served.

“What’s this?” I said.

My girlfriend looked down at the list momentarily, then fixated back on the gymnast.

She said, “There was a film-fest earlier today– Oh honey, take a break!– and those are the finalists– You think I could slip cash into her leotard?– and they’ll show each of these films throughout dinner and then award the winner.”

“Oh,” I said. “I see.”

Through the crowd, I saw my girlfriend’s Mother striding in. Looking like she owned the place. Boss Momma.

“Hello you two,” she said.

“Hello.”

My girlfriend got up and hugged her then sat back down quickly to continue watching over the gymnast.

But Boss Momma remained standing.

“Join us,” I said, not knowing what to say.

“I will. I’m just going to grab a drink before I sit down,” Boss Momma said.

My girlfriend nudged me. She and I had been sober for six months, but I understood. I stood up and walked with her Mom to the bar. Everyone we passed through seemed absorbed in their own world and they didn’t know me or make eye contact so I was feeling alright. My girl’s mother ordered a vodka soda with lime and we waited as the bartender fixed it up nicely. I was usually completely useless at making small talk, but my girlfriend’s mother made it easy. She wasn’t an event person either. She was one of the smartest people I’d ever met. She liked baseball and dirty jokes and she was a single mom that had worked two, sometimes three jobs her whole life. Until she found the job that required her to go to this event.

“You hear Goldy might be traded?” she said.

“It’s a shame,” I said. “Puig might be traded too though. At least we won’t have to see him as much.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Fuck that guy.”

Big Boss Momma. She grabbed her drink from the bartender and took a sip. Everyone at the event knew it, I thought, she was in charge. We started to make our way through the crowd, back to our table, when a couple that was also in line for the bar noticed her. They looked excited and immediately walked over to her to pay tribute, kiss the ring.

“Incoming,” I said.

My girlfriend’s Mom turned to greet them. They were work friends of some kind, I wasn’t sure, and they seemed like they’d been drinking all day. The man wore a skin-tight suit, had that haircut that every other skin-tight-suit-wearing guy had, and the woman had a short sparkly dress and high heels that looked very uncomfortable.

“I’m s’glad you came!” the woman in heels said, hugging Boss Momma, then looking around at the other people at the event. “The festival was soooo boring without you,” she whispered.

They went on talking for a minute before I realized I hadn’t said anything or made any facial expression other than ice-cold indifference. Boss Momma realized it too.

“Sorry,” she said, “This is Ty, my daughter’s boyfriend.”

“Hello.”

“Nice to meet you man,” the guy in the suit said.

We shook hands. Then silence. I was embarrassing Boss Momma. Letting her down. But still, she kept her cool.

“What’s new?” she said to the woman. “Haven’t seen you in awhile.”

“Oh!” the woman said, “Have I shown you my baby yet?”

The woman pulled out her phone and started showing off pictures of her “baby”. A shaggy little puppy who had big eyes and long goofy ears. So beautiful. The woman began to explain how she got the little puppy. But she was stumbling over her words and talking really fast.

“Needadahome. So w’gavem a home! S’fuckin’ cute right? Right!?”

My girlfriend’s Mom and I nodded. Picture after picture. Mostly of the puppy just laying around. We used every variation of “cute,” telling her how great it was, adopting instead of buying, until the conversation died of natural causes.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“We’ll see you in a bit,” Boss Momma said.

There were new additions when we got back to the table. Three woman all staring at their phones, looking bored. They didn’t notice us. And my girlfriend looked relieved when we sat back down.

“Hey,” she kissed my cheek. “Who were you guys talking to over there?”

“I forgot the woman’s name, but her husband is the head of my department,” Boss Momma said.

Undeniably, the Boss. I felt like putting my fist up to my mouth and saying, “Burn.” But my girlfriend nudged me again and pointed toward the gymnast woman. She was standing on the ground for the first time, walking towards the bathroom.

“She’s going to the bathroom,” I said. “But you know you’ll regret not talking to her.”

My girlfriend smiled and quickly followed after her, leaving Momma and I with the three strangers who were now scowling at the menu. They were talking about the vegan options. And how they were worried about the quality of it.

“In my experience,” the one wearing a kimono said, “if a chef doesn’t specialize in vegan food, it’s usually sub-par.”

The first course arrived. I was starving, would’ve eaten anything, but it looked like something I needed to put in me at once. Some kind of deep-fried pork thing. I thought, “get in me.” Then Boss Momma and I dug in while the strangers watched us.

“Well,” one of them said. “I’m glad some of the meat dishes will get eaten at this table.”

Another said, “I was told there was a vegan option for each dish. Guess that’s not happening!”

The third one picked up a plate of the pork-thing and placed it in front of me aggressively. “I just can NOT have that in front of me,” she said, faking a laugh.

I looked at her. Then the plate. Then back to her, not blinking. Then I grabbed the plate and started in on it too. The women watched as I ate from both plates, with both hands, a slightly sexual vibe in the way I was gazing at the food and sliding it in my mouth. The only way to feast, undoubtedly, when at an event such as this.

When my girlfriend returned, both plates in front of me were empty.

“The food good?” she asked.

“Mm Hm.”

The three vegan women looked horrified.

“How did it go with the acrobat woman?” I asked.

My girlfriend smiled and handed me a business card.

“We’re best friends now,” she said. “And she’s getting paid a shit-ton! I’m going to go to her studio and take a few classes next week.”

“Of course,” I said. “When you followed her into the bathroom, that’s exactly how I pictured it going.”

The second course arrived. Another meat stuffed appetizer. And the first film was displayed on large screen at the front and center of the event. The three women, and my girlfriend, all turned their attention to it, as Boss Momma and I continued to eat. From what I heard, the film was about a retired schoolteacher who receives a letter from a former student. Somehow, in the end, it turned out that the schoolteacher was a serial killer. The crowd applauded. And the three women at the table “ooh’ed” and “ah’ed” as the untouched food in front of them went cold. It was the third course they were looking forward to. They had been promised that the vegan option would be served to them right away. My girlfriend, her mother and I were looking forward to the third course as well– the real third course. It was a big plate of noodles with bulgogi slapped brilliantly on top.

Boss Momma said, “We’ll eat the bulgogi, skip the award ceremony, then get out of here.”

Out of nowhere, the puppy-loving drunk woman in heels squatted down next to her.

“Hey guysss!” she said. “Was wonderin’ if ya got a light?” She held up an unlit cigarette. “Idiot husband losdah lighter.”

One of the vegan women dug around in her purse and handed over a lighter and the woman in heels stumbled off toward the door. Then it started. The moment we’d been waiting for.

We saw the waiters and waitresses start to disperse around the event with the third course in hand. As I watched them serve the tables nearest the kitchen, the final film was put on the projector.

“You might like it,” my girlfriend said, turning my head away from the food and toward the screen. “Maybe it’ll be good.”

The film started out with a family sitting near a fireplace. A grandmother, grandfather, their daughter, and their grandchildren. It was then revealed that the grandmother had Alzheimer’s and the grandfather was getting no help from his daughter or other family members. The film then shows the many problems the grandfather goes through taking care of his sick wife. I was hooked. The food was served, the vegan version being placed in front of the three women (who picked at it and complained) and the bulgogi was set down in front of us. But I was busy watching the film. At the end, it got wild. Turned out, the whole time, it was the grandfather with Alzheimer’s. Twist of all twists. The crowd applauded and I started in on the bulgogi, which was also mind-blowing.

And I thought, I like events.

“Did you like it,” my girlfriend said.

“Yes,” I smiled. “You were right.”

After we were finished eating we said goodbye to the vegans and walked toward the exit. Boss Momma breezing past the groups that wanted to smooch her royal hand as my girl and I followed closely behind. When we went out the doors, we saw the drunk woman in heels again.

She was smoking a cigarette and talking with a tall gray-haired man. He looked terrified, stone-faced, as the woman in heels spoke very loudly and demonstratively, waving her hands and swaying slightly. The more she moved, the more her dress crept up.

“I’m so glad we’re not doing that anymore,” my girl said.

“Yeah. She’s going to feel awful tomorrow.”

Before we separated, I hugged Boss Momma and thanked her for inviting me and she nodded and walked towards her car.

“Bye Mom!” my girlfriend said, waving.

“Thanks for coming,” Boss Momma said. “Drive safe you two.”

She drove off into the sunset. Like a Boss. A Queen. Then I turned to my girlfriend and squeezed her ass.

“Really?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I couldn’t help picturing you in one of those gymnast leotards, after you said you’d take a class.”

“It’s okay,” she said, squeezing my ass.

“You will be great big-long-fabric-acrobat woman,” I said. “I have no doubt in my mind.”

“Yeah?”

Yeah. She would. She could do anything. She was next in line for the throne.

—

T.J. Larkey lives in the desert and works as a process server.

“Faceless in Nippon” by Dale Brett

July 1, 2019May 20, 2019 Back Patio PressLeave a comment

She decided to take the train on a whim. She asked me if I would like to tag along.

“It’s only forty-five minutes and you don’t need to change lines,” she told me.

Her voice sounded strange and unfamiliar, like she was entombed in a Turkish bath house as I listened to her in real-time on my pre-paid flip phone – the cheapest model available. Apparently, they didn’t even sell them anymore.

We met at a large metropolitan station mid-morning. I don’t recall the name. All one and the same. I drank a can of iced coffee from a hole-in-the-wall convenience store while I waited. People walked by – faceless, nameless people. Some people did wear expressions where the faces should have been, but the expressions were smudged, deliberately obscuring whatever intent lay underneath.

Others wore ill-fitting masks, smeared or pasted on the skin and left to dry, like split eggplants basted with miso paste left in the intense summer sun. Their features slowly congealing into a new entity – like a stop-motion leaking of time. A select few were unable to hide. Their true colours on display for all to see. These misfits were ceremoniously ignored and consistently seen as ‘not fit for society’, rejected by the orderly imposters that were approved to move seamlessly through the interzone. I ensured I played my role and did not bring attention to these non-beings. Their presence always felt though, like a hard lump in the throat that prevents one from swallowing.

Amongst these proud yet confused tribes of twenty-first century ideals, she emerged from the chittering crowds.

“Do you need a ticket?”

“Icoca.”

“What?”

“Icoca,” I repeated softly, a lack of confidence setting in, uncertain of my pronunciation of this alien set of letters bundled together. Not an acronym, nor part of any ‘real’ language – a word one shouldn’t utter aloud. A word best left for the ‘void’.

“Icoca,” I said again with more certainty, in a tone that belied my bemusement at the sequence of verbal utterances we were currently exchanging. I held up the blue-silver plastic travel card in recognition, gesturing to the cartoon penguin emblazoned on the surface.

“Oh,” she said. “Icoca.”

“I thought it was called something else.” She added after some time had passed.

♦ ♦ ♦

On the train, we talked about trivial things – different flavoured mints, why we found people who were fascinated by cars utterly incomprehensible, her extremely overweight cat that I met last time I was at her 1DK apartment. The cat’s name was Yukio Mishima, named after the Japanese writer and I was particularly fascinated by it. I recalled observing it as it sat on the compact foldout sofa, attempting to lick its genitals, yet failing to do so successfully due to the girth that inhibited its daily cat rituals.

While observing it during this miserable moment, I remembered that I couldn’t stop thinking if I traded souls with the cat, perhaps the first, and best thing, I could do was to commit seppuku in honour of its given name. Observing this fat cat at her apartment made me feel how sad and absurd the world was. To be an overweight cat owned by a foreigner in Japan.

But the cat didn’t know any of this. It couldn’t comprehend concepts like alienation or international travel or boredom. It just was. Not fathoming how a series of intertwined events could lead to its current bed of roses. Despite the relatively carefree life it led (weight issues aside) it had no autonomy, nor freedom, to make its own choices. Everything it had, or did, dictated by the decisions of another. All outcomes pre-determined.

I often wondered if it could understand concepts like envy or jealousy would it yearn to be transformed into a more agile feline, like the ones I often viewed from the balcony of my apartment? The indistinct forms of black and mottled grey sitting patiently next to disorderly makeshift gardens at dusk, waiting for the next meme of their lives to unfold. Or would Yukio Mishima choose to stay as he was, content in his hedonistic ways, satisfied with the food and shelter provided so ‘generously’, willing to make this trade-off for any real ability to clean himself efficiently?

♦ ♦ ♦

Shogeki.

“Touch your pass again.” She says as she attempts to exit the station.

Touching my pass again to the sensor at the station gates, I am greeted by the intermittent flashing of red and white lights indicating there is a problem with my fare. The red and white lights are not menacing – more thoughtful, like a reminder to complete some semi-important task. An embellished mash-up of hieroglyphs encoded within. A semiotic fugue only introduced upon the first touch, then, recurring frequently throughout the duration of the composition, somewhat soothing in tone. Silently, without thinking, I turn my body on a 180-degree angle and withdraw from the erect barrier to accommodate the mass of my virtually empty shoulder bag, automatically shuttling myself to the ticket machine nearby.

The mixture of the heat in the underground concrete space and the slight acrid smell of chemicals mollify as I glide effortlessly to a set of four adjoined somewhat chunky ticket machines. I mechanically insert my shiny blue-silver pass and deposit the change needed to gain access to the human world above, to legally comply with my obligation as a public transport using person. I find it astounding that a machine of such girth is necessary to complete this menial task. Like one of those ‘super computers’ from the ‘60s you see images of on Wikipedia with a cacophony of jovial professors standing around, beaming smiles as they consider the previously unfathomable possibilities of a thousand-kilogram machine playing a game of chess. A complete contrast to the recently recharged touchless smart card that I hold in my palm.

She is waiting for me patiently at the gates. Not being able to tell how much time has passed, I touch my pass to the sensor once more, a feeling of dread setting in, my thought pattern ‘Kafkaesque’ as I ponder what I can possibly do if my card is rejected again – no man can ‘afford’ to be thrown back into the throes of the red and white semiotic abyss. The sensor beams green though, a chime dings, the barriers stand to attention and part, free passage to the very different hemisphere on the other side awaits.

As I ascend the stairs with her, hand in hand, all I can feel is something vacant settle in.

—

Dale Brett is a writer and artist from Melbourne, Australia.

He is interested in exploring the melancholic malaise and technological ennui of the 21st century. His work has been featured on Burning House Press, Surfaces.cx and Nu Lit Mag. Hypertextual artifacts found @_blackzodiac.

“Why Does No One Summon The Good Spirits?” by MJ Miken

June 30, 2019June 14, 2019 Back Patio PressLeave a comment

Take a look at these idiots. Would you take a look at these idiots? The guy here is wearing a Children of Bodom t-shirt and is sporting a moustache that looks like he watched a 1930’s Max Fleisher cartoon, saw the cartoon devil in it, and thought to himself, “That’s the look for me!” And the girl here, what a disaster. Don’t even get me started on her. These two have no idea what they’re doing or what they’ve gotten themselves into. The guy is doing an incantation ritual, trying to summon a demon – for what possible reason who the hell knows – and he completely fucked it up by reciting the names in the closing portion in the wrong order. He was supposed to go in the reverse order of the opening naming part, but goofball-moustache here recited them in the same order. Now, not only is the demon he summoned – yes, he did actually summon a demon, Yilzanzzipal – a rude fella but he is now attached to the girl. She has an attachment. And those aren’t easy to get rid of.

I feel bad really. Not for the girl. Hell, she deserves it. Serves her right for hitching her wagon to this stringy-haired dipshit. But for Yilzanzzipal. Yilly had to come, he had no choice, since he isn’t a 10-and-5 guy. See, in the most recent collective bargaining agreement, entities who have existed for more than ten centuries with five centuries in the same location have to waive their “no summons clause” in order to be sent from where they are to a new hangout spot. Many of the veterans turn down the summons unless it is just too good to pass up. Yilly though has only existed for about 800 years – he came into being in the early 13th century – and he’s only been in his current spot for about 250 years. He had actually been in semi-retirement since his name had not come up in a conjuring in some time. So he found himself a quiet place on the astral plane between the Fourth and Fifth parallel dimensions. But since this chancer mucked up the ritual, Yilly is here now and hooked onto this guy’s friend. Oh well. Yilzanzzipal will make the best of it and I’m sure he’ll get back into the swing of things soon. I see he is already giving her chest pains and breathing difficulties. Mild oppression should follow soon and then a full on possession. And if he doesn’t, he’ll just make himself at home and torment the bejesus out of her: nightmares, black moving masses, growls, voices, depression, anger – the usual routine from a low to mid-level grinder-type demon.

The saddest thing, is that this all could have been avoided. Not the summoning ritual, oh no. People are going to do that shit and call in demons from now until doomsday. Hell, it’s been going on since the First Age of Earth and we’re in the Fourth Age of Earth now, and it’s not slowing down at all. Especially now that there are all these ghost hunting shows on TV and money trap ghost tours. Kids and other assorted weirds think it’ll be cool and fun to grab the good ol’ Ouija board or go to a black magic shop and buy a book of incantations from the person working there who himself hasn’t see the daylight in years and then see who or what they can talk to or even talk into showing up. Like it’s a parlor trick or the demon is like a magician you hire for two hours on a Sunday for your kid’s birthday party. Well, it isn’t. Granted, most of the demons the knuckleheads get involved with are more the Star Trek red shirt types. But they still can be pretty nasty, particularly depending on their place of origin and what they’ve been feeding on. And sometimes, like the nerd on prom night, anyone, even by blind luck, can fumble and stumble into something and get in way over their heads and end up with someone powerful. Now, the top elite tier mother fuckers, it takes a big time sinister superstar to get one of those elite bastards to show up. And, that hoss would have to waive his “no summons” clause first. And I already went over that.

No, what the shame is, is that most of these possessions and dark energies and hauntings and shit could have been prevented. All the twats would have to do is summon one of us, a Shamira, in first. It’s like the last time I got hit up. The last time…hell, it must have been, Fourth Age, 19th century. Shit, two hundred years. Jesus. That means I’ve done a big squadoosh for two hundred years. But as I was about to say, see, this white witch Carol was performing a séance at the home of some rich cunts in oy oy England. One of those regulated manners and ballroom etiquette families. The kind you’d see in a Jane Austen movie on PBS. For some reason, I guess same as nowadays, occult and macabre shit was the vogue thing going around the poshies. Must have been all those gothic fictions and penny dreadfuls. People have always been stupid. Want to touch the flame even when they’ve been told not to and their brain says don’t fucking do it.

Now instead of the usual soiree these people would throw – coats with tails, gowns, masks, talking shit about others – they wanted to have a Dark Arts Night. So they asked around and word on the streets of London town was this lady, the aforementioned Carol, who lived up in the Outer Hebrides, was the bee’s knees when it came to spectral shenanigans. So they hired her for the night, ferried and buggied her down, invited all their pretentious friends over saying it’s the event of the season and any-gentry who’s gentry will be there. At the shindig, after they all ate roast woodcock and larded oysters or whatever fancy people eat before they play Scattegories and the category is “Bad Ideas starting with S”, Carol takes over and has everyone sit around the table. Carol really was A#1 when it came to this stuff. She could see, chat with, and, oh boy, could she summon things that would scare the pants and bloomers off these knobs. But she was also a sweetheart – bless her heart – and as dumb as they were, she didn’t want anyone getting scarred. Demons can mark you and change you bad.

So I’m dancing away at this club called Metaphysikal in the Eighth parallel dimension, club’s hopping and the mighty Apis Bull – legend – is DJing and dropping one hardstyle banger after another. I’m chatting up this smoke female light being and I start to feel a bit of a twinge in, you know, my mind; and next thing I know I’m zooming through the aether like at the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Now I’m standing in the middle of some bougie parlor with a bunch of puffy people. We get hit up, we have to go. No choice. We’re conscripted on “right thing to do” grounds. Keeping the peace and keeping John and Jane Doe from their own dopiness.

Carol has all these self-important muppets sitting around a table and holding hands. Soon as I get in the door I know where this is going. And I know Carol knows I’m there. Hell, I swear she can even see me. Third eye shit. She starts up the ritual and she’s got her grimoire open, she’s reciting the incantation, and she has bones and teeth and some other trigger stuff that she’s playing with and she’s speaking in old time Gaelic and I’m just laid back because she’s a pro and I’m on the scene. Then her voice gets all raspy and evil sounding and her eyes are turning white, rolling back, and she’s twitching and some of the women at the table start flipping out. And even though I’m still thinking about that bombshell and am a bit chapped about being yanked from her to here, it’s a grand time in this joint.

Then all the candles go out. A cold wind blows through the room. They all start geekin’, saying something is around them, they’re hearing voices, and something’s touching them. Carol is passed the fuck out. I know this is all Mnenomet’s bit. That narcissistic asshat has always had a flair for the theatrical. Carol knew what she was doing in calling him in. This lot wanted a performance and she gave them one. That’s a good businesswoman right there. Know what the clients want and give them what they need. I wasn’t about to deny these good people their Saturday fun so I reposed and let Mnenomet sashay and strut about. He cast some shadow figures, knocked on the walls, threw crap across the room, got their chests tight and heart rates way up, and even made one of the mingers vomit up her pudding on her dress. Like I said before, this shit isn’t game night. So before he got to Act 2, I stepped in.

Ok, show’s over.

Souls…he snarled.

I reply, Not going to happen. You trashed this place, ruined a dress and some pantaloons from the smell of things, and gave them a good fright. Now let’s call it a night.

He didn’t like that. These B-minus list assholes, especially the temperamental ones who think of this as a “craft” and an “art” are always a pain. They’re not top shelf, never will be, so they compensate with attitude and arrogance. He said he had used up a good amount of energy taking the form of a little girl – little girl voices, especially with a posh monotone British accent, are just creepy as hell – and wasn’t about to let this go to waste. He gave me a whole song and dance about how this was the first good job he’s gotten in a while and if I could give him a break and… and I wasn’t having any his hokum because I knew he was just coming off a long term residency at an abbey in France and he even possessed a couple priests while he was there. That’s a good gig. He did get exorcised and tossed out on his ass by a brute of a bishop; but he’s only been out of work about 120 years. So I wasn’t buying his scam.

But he says, but I can’t turn back out of this body for another two days. Let me at least oppress ascot man. Just for a minute or three?

Don’t give me that ‘can’t turn back’ crap, I say back. Mnenomet, I say, you’re an ethereal entity. You can take any shape you want at any time. Look, I’ve already waivered on my ethics and let you have way more fun than I should have. And as much as I admittedly would like to see ascot guy get roughed around for a bit, I cannot. Carol, the one who summoned you…

I like her, he buts in.

I bet you do, I say, but she there called me to keep shit from getting bad and keep these yahoos safe. So take a bow and get the fuck outta here.

Well, he wasn’t listening and got a bit aggressive so I had to give him a pasting. That changed his tune. He shifted back to his demon form, and on his way out – he’s all dragging ass and shuffling his hooves and hanging his head – I told him he had some talent and I was sure something long term would come along again soon and he’d be a real star. And that seemed to perk him right up. He bowed and then vanished and went back to the nearest, most convenient space between dimensions. Piece of piss.

That’s the last time I went into work. Over two hundred earth years. A whole lot of bad shit has been gotten up to and gone down. Shit that should never have happened. That’s a whole lotta shit that could have been prevented. Like Wu-Tang say, protect ya neck. And you’d think they’d learn. But they never do. They never fucking do. And then next thing they know, someone is being dragged up their wall and speaking in Sumerian or marching into…

You know what, to hell with ‘em. Fuckers don’t want the help then they ain’t gonna get the help. And that doesn’t affect me at all. Doesn’t affect any of us. If we’re not being called on then that just gives us more time to read scrolls and watch videos at the Akashic Record or… aw, shit. Tonight is Ladies Night at Metaphysikal. Maybe she’ll be there. And Hiyoribō is on the decks. So can’t be assed.

—

MJ Miken is a writer and DJ. Written work can be found at Soft Cartel and Terror House Magazine. Sonic work can be found at

https://soundcloud.com/metasonicfolios. His current location is Earth-planet, Universe; or, the nearest gym. He does not skip leg day.

He can also be found on Twitter: @DanseMusick