No Such Thing

There are stories told, even in trail times. There are stories that memas and old men tell, in front of drum fires as the frailliyah and the overlords and the wont women sleep. These are stories of the world and all things, and that the came before and will come after. These are stories that Nyame, The Father-Sky, passed down to Yambe who was the wind, whose stories were stolen by the raven and brought down to Babitamba who was the rock and who gave them to the First, who some call Ani and others called the Mamibushuu. This is a story of the world and how it came to be:

The Mother Yamai, who was Earth and wife to the sky, was barren and nothing live upon her and she wanted for children of her own. But Nyame, who eye sees all, would not allow her to give children. He would look down and he would burn them with his eye, and so the world was without life. One day, The Mother Yamai went to Nyame and said “Sky, I want children “
“No “said Nyame.
“ Sky “said The Mother Yamai “Give me a child “
“No “said Nyame

“Sky “said The Mother Yamai “Give me a child, right now. “
“No” said Nyame “A thousand times no”
And The Mother Yamai finally fell silence and said nothing more. A year passed and The Mother Yamai did not move, did not stir, did not turn.
“ Wife “ said Nyame “ Why do you stay so still? “
And two years passed and The Mother Yamai did not move, did not stir, did not turn.
“ Wife “ said Nyame “ Why do you not turn and face me? Wife? Why do you stay so still? “
And a decade passed and The Mother remained still.
“Wife “ said Nyame “ Why do you not speak to me? Are you sick? Are you ill? Are you dead? “
And The Mother Yamai still did not move.
A pall fell over Nyame and he began to cry, for he thought his wife dead and gone.
“ My wife, my wife! “ He cried and his tears fell and became the rain.
“ My wife, my wife! “ He howled and his cries became the wind.
“ My wife, my wife! “ He gnashed his teeth and they became the rock.
“ My wife, my wife! “ He scraped his skin and they became the wood
And finally The Mother Yamai spoke and said “ My husband! My husband! I love you so! “
And Nyame, who was covered his eye when he cried, opened it and saw the wonders of the world and the life that teemed upon it.
“ My wife! My wife! “ He said “ I thought you dead and gone!”
“ No, my husband! No! I am here, alive and well. You brought me children and you brought me life! “
And he did, for the sea was born and the wind was born and the rock was born and the wood was born.
And for a while they were happy.

Winter Clothes

The Lovers 

He was beautiful. His eyes were wide and bright. His face was that of a strong, sharp-cheeked African prince. He spoke with an accent and every word sounds like music. He loved to see her smile, so his jokes are always well timed and smart. He wit was charming, observational and good-natured. When she was with him she laughed a lot. A bawdy, hearty laugh. She smiles as his image crosses her mind. It just seemed so random as it happened. A man on the buss offers his seat and it starts a two and a half hour conversation about history. He was so smart, so disarming. Instantly, she knew it. They exchanged numbers. He wrote his digits on a scrap of paper. She wrote hers on his palms.

He promised not to forget it. Home was four blocks southward. It was desolate at this time at night. Buildings were shaded and dark. Shops had laid down their metal faces over the windows, leaving only their neon light on. It was cold but she was not bothered by it. Her skin was always warm. A cat strutted out of an alleyway and looked up at her. She smiled as it got up on its’ hunches. It lout a throaty hiss and stalked off across the street. The only sound she heard was the licking of her shoes on the concrete.

She wondered what he was doing now (He is thinking of her distantly, staring at his cell phone as the bus turns the corner). She wonders if it’s too soon to call and her cheeks flush with blood (He is being silly, he says to himself. He should call first). She looked at the number on the paper (He decides that he’ll wait until he’s gotten something to eat first).

“ Mark “ She said. “ Short for Marcus “

(“ I wonder if she likes Jazz “ He mutters)

Her apartment looms, a short squat box in mud-colored brownstone. Its’ ugliness pierced her mood but she would not be deflated by it. She took in a breath and reached for the door. She hated her building, he druggie infested dump, but tonight she would ignore it. She would ignore the crude graffiti and the smell of piss coming from the stairs and the broken elevator. She would ignore the pimps and dealers who stood outside and watched her like vultures watching a corpse. She would ignore the crushing flickering lights and the smell of weed that proliferated the air. She will go upstairs and run a cool bath, she told herself. She will watch some T.V, snuggle into her bathrobe and make herself something to eat. She will call him on the stroke of midnight. They will talk until she fell asleep or the sun came up. She smiled and in silence stepped int.

She seems him standing in the living room by the window. His face is dark and somber. She closed her eyes and sighs.

“ Could you please close the window? “ She asked.

He nodded his head and obliged.

“ You might want to sit down. “ She said but he shook his head. “ Okay. I’ll stand too. “

He remained still.

“ All I did was love. “ She said. “ I mean, yeah it was wrong. I mean, I knew it wouldn’t end well. I knew she would go back to him, but it was love. I gave her my heart. I promised her that she would be my only one and I kept it. There weren’t any others after. It was only her. I was faithful. Even when she said I seduced her, even when they hung me, I was faithful. “ She said it again. “ I was faithful. “

She blinked back the tears. She would not let herself cry now.

“ What kind of God punishes people for being in love? “

She fell to her knees then. He stood over her, silent and grim. He brought the gun to her left eye.

“ I’m sorry. “ He said. He fired once and the force sent her sprawling on her back. The scrap of paper falls out of her pocket.

“ Tell him. “ She said. Something like pity crosses his face.

“ No. “



******

He rode the bus alones for days. He tried calling a few times, but all he got was the machine. Each day, his heart sunk deeper, but each day he lost a little more of her. Tonight, it would be what she smelled like. Yesterday, it was her laugh. Tomorrow, it will be her name. Then he will hardly remember being in love at all.

Shiny Things

Chris rolled the tape around his fist. The crowd was hot, or so the angents told him. Not that they needed to, mind you, he c ould hear them from back here. He shared the locker room with Quincy and Mark, and two green boys who dropped their bags outside and were prepared to change. They let them dress with them and the boys introduced themselves at Sven and Howie. They were being squashed tonight.


It was just another night, he lied. Just another day in the office. He smacked his fist into his open palm and heard the satisfying slap of knuckle tape of skin. He cut and rolled smaller strips of tapes around the joints of his fingers and a final loop around the base of his wrist. With a sharpie, he affixed a black cross on the back of his hand. He got up and went to the mirror at the back of the room. He begun face painting when he saw how wrestlers did it in Japan, using art sponges for broad stroke and nylon-hair brushes for accents. He'd learn to design intricate geometric pattern over his face over the years but for tonight he reduced it to a single black bar over his eyes.

He taped two stripes to his face, keeping them parallel and spaced, then passed the black shoe-polish over his eyes. Some use grease paint, but polish was oil based and harder to rub off. Critical when he began to sweat and grapple. It all eventually comes off, someone told him, one way or another. There was a knock on the door

" Two minutes " Someone said and disappeared down the corridor. Chris could hear the banging of the sheet metal signs in front of the guard railing. The crowd was chanting something indistinct, banging on the metal to keep the rhythm. He listened closely and realized it was " Seven Nation Army ", David's music. He smiled and finished up. Standing, he looks at himself in the mirror.

" I am Kira " He said

Announcing! Short Fazed Fiction

It is my pleasure to announce the beginning of Short Fazed Fiction at Carotid Artery. Short Fazed Fiction is user-generated literary content that allows anyone, anyone, to submit and have posted a piece of fiction or poetry. The catch: It has to be short. Flash-fiction, micro-fiction, vignettes,and short stories are allowed. No novellas, novels, or novelettes. 7500 words and under. Poetry, songs, scripts (stage, screen or otherwise), essays and articles are allow depending on individual length. Anything that's too long for publishing here will probably be linked to. All submissions will be read and most will be excepted (I'm not picky). Any genre or style is allowed. Adult content is allowed, but all submissions will be published with a content advisory warning. All rights belong to all respective parties at all times during submission and publications.

Send all submissions to caroartery@gmail.com

Other news:

The last few weeks I've been silently posting up rough drafts of the book I've been working on. For a while, it's been a little unformed series of ideas and a good writing exercise but over the last few weeks it's crystalized into something more. And so I'd like to announce that I'm going to be pursuing this as a full-fledged novel and I'll be seeking publication of it when I'm done (like you care) and I'll devoting all my time to it in the coming year. The book is called The Hanged Man (for the time being) and it'll be a rip-sorting paranormal thriller about a dead man recruited by the Devil to hunt down condemned souls let loose on Earth. If you heard the premise before (you probably have in the short-lived series Brimstone), settle down. The Hanged Man is a different beast. A darker, more twisted beast that I hope you guys enjoy. I'll be continuing to write short fiction and posting up, but I'm hoping that as I'm writing this board can become a place where people can share stories and expand their creative horizons.


Here's to you.

Benel Germosen 2009

For me, it's in the doing now

1:5

He wakes to the knocking of the door but he does not get up until the footsteps disappear down the hall. There is a tray on the floor, a plate underneath a dish-cover and a set of utensils. He takes the tray and sets it down on the table. His breakfast is scrambled eggs and bacon with toasted wheat bread and bottled water on the side. He eats quickly, hungrily and retires to the bathroom. He washes his face in the sink, rinsing his hand under the faucet until he could no longer feel the cold water. He is running a fever that never ends. Heat radiates off him like a stench. He lays his cold hands on his face and looks into his deep set eyes. His reflection is gaunt and pay but unchanged from last he looked upon it. He is no more harrowed than a man who lacks a good night sleep. No more dead than a tired man. He undresses and enters the shower. He runs the water cold and washes until he the last of the sleep falls away from him. He turns off the water and takes towel from the rack, drying himself when he looks up and sees a figure at the door. The pale man, now in profile, is a stranger to him. He walks across the room to the mirror behind the door and he traces his hand against the smooth glass. A full length mirror hung from the back of the bathroom door, reflecting a man carved with black runes from foot to face. He put his finger across the skin of his chest and felt the unmistakable bump of ink, but when he looks down at his hands or at his arms he sees nothing but the same pallid flesh that he recognized. He looks back at the mirror, closer at the marks that adorn his body. They are crude pictograms. Jagged, abstract lines form a vague, incomprehensible language. He feels the outline on his shoulder. Five line segments united at a central junction, sharp angled lines spearing in towards it. He looks at the reflection casted in the mirror and to his eyes it looks to be a man being struck by lightning. For whatever reason, this makes him laugh and he shakes his head.


His clothes are on the chair, pressed and folded. He takes the shirt and opens it. It is crisp and white, like new. He gets dressed and finds his coat hanging neatly in the closet, dirty but dry. He throws it on and leaves. Downstairs, light comes from doors and open window. The room is empty save for the fine quality of dust that floats up to the beams of natural light and, of course, the girl behind the counter.
" Morning " He says
She looks up, smiles, nods her head and returns her eyes to the folded newspaper. A silence falls, occasionally broken by the scratching of the pen on the newsprint. He leans over and inspects the lower left-hand corner of the dim-gray page. The crossword is filled in jay-blue pen. She is quickly filling out the Sudoku grid in a festive green ink, the color of lime skins.
" Heading out? " She asks from the page.
" Yeah " He says
She slides the ledger over to him
" Sign the ledger before you do. "
He picks up the pen and he hovers over the page.
" You know, I've notice that there's doesn't seem to be any other guest. The ledger's empty. "
She gives him the same lazy stare from the night before, but she shifts uncomfortably in her chair and this betrays her apathy.
" Yeah. We're not really busy this season. "
He looks around at the dust motes and empty seats and he regards her with a quiet smile.
" Alright " He says and signs his name in blocky print.
As he reaches to the door, she calls to him. He turns and she says " My boss wants to talk to you before you go. She says it's important. "
"What about? "
" Dunno. But you should really go. "
" I'll take a rain check " He says. " Got things I need to take care. Things I need to do. "
" I really think you should go. " She says with a lazy stare.
He shrugs his shoulder. " Goodbye. " He says and leaves.

*****

She takes a breath and opens the door. She steps into the short corridor, but it is dark and there are vague shapes in the darkness. They are stationary articles of furniture that she has seen a dozen time before in the light. The darkness sets her on edge. Her nerves twang like taut guitar strings. Every sound becomes an omen. Every creak of the floor with every steps she takes on a dreadful quality. She walks carefully, hands in front of her to find the turn and once her fingers strokes the frame she carries her self over to the side room. And the darkness stretches out before her and she feels her heart thumping in her chest. She breathes and steels her face and her skin is a brave hard-shell that nothing can penetrates. But she is scared for no reason and this rattles her. She nearly forgets to breath.
" He blew me off. He said he had things he needed to care of. " She says.
And the darkness produces a flicker of a flame.
And the voice that holds that flame says " He will learn "

We Tried To Save Him

The train rocked slowly into the night as he stared into the dark the Montana landscapes. Lulliper had cramped herself in the corner with her legs up and the side of her head pressed against the far wall. Sam was lucky enough to have two seats to himself, so he slept with his legs slightly pinched, flat on his side. He had converted a bag that he filled with clothes as a pillow. Jack, as always, could not sleep. In the distance, the red lights of a town just across the river came into view, ribboned by the thick black canopy of trees that separated the town and river from the speeding train. He could see the wide tunnel thorough a small past if he pressed his head against the cool glass. It was a clear night. The moonless night would have been pitched black save for the reflection of the stars and cities upon the river, which created a ethereal wave of glittering stardust that seemed unreal. Jack felt the lulling drowsiness but not the eye shuttering exhausting that came with regular sleep. If he closed his eyes, he would simply see the back of his eye-lids, but the oppressive darkness that shielded the view of the river created a strange filtering effect and made his eyes strain to capture the fleeting momentary view. It was the moment after he wiped his eyes when he saw them.




They were four from the count of them, all riding horses. From what Jack could recall from what little esquiterian he knew, they seemed like Fox-trotters but it was hard to tell from the lack of color and indistinguishable shape that came from incorporeality. They rode on near the light of the train, two of them were toward the rear of the cart neck and neck. One was a little farther along from them catching up to the one which Jack saw clearest from his window. Together, the four of them rode like a silent films, there vague forms only hinting at who and what they once were in life. The details well obscured by the poor light and the lack of physical forms. At times they would lose resolution and luster. Other times they were sharp and crisp. A moment later they would blur. Jack took note of their late night presence for one reason. It was the first time he had ever seen ghost horses. It was a sight.



©Benel Germosen, 2008

A Small Intermission

I had dreams. I don't remember the second one too well. Dick was going away to college and I wanted to throw him a party but I lost the address to the place. I'm losing it now. I can't remember it. The second one is still there though, clear as day. I was trying not to doze off in the cave because I've been up all night. I had knives in the back of my eyes from lack of sleep and my back was on fire. I don't remember getting up, but I must have gone to the kitchen for some coffee and I heard music playing the gallery. When I open the door, my father is having a party. I know it's my father's party because everyone is masks and gowns and suits. Like a mascaraed ball. And I'm standing there and I feel silly because I don't have a costume. I don't have the right costume on, I mean. And I go around the party and I'm looking for my father, but I can't find him. Someone, I think it was Emile Corey, you know him from boarding school? He runs a software company now. I think he tells me that my father was called away. He's at the hospital right now, performing surgery. And then I woke up.



©Benel Germosen, 2007
 
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