dirty rings

silly clown,

retrieve your naked wife

swimming with those war weary soldiers  

off that rocky shore.

gloomy skies water these unmarked graves

but we’ll erect tents in the downpour,

holy temples to innocence and joy.

after the rain

we’ll smear on make-up

adorn our best remaining costumes

parade downtown to invite the city to our show.

they’ll marvel at our antics

laugh at the juggling midget

gasp at the tightrope walk

forget their misery beyond the northern hill

if just for a few minutes.

come clown,

gather your unfaithful bride

so we may begin our work.

Collector

Collecting burned through Randolph Nocton’s veins from the beginning.  As soon as he could roll and scoot, he inched his way towards shiny things, claimed them, and tucked them in his playroom’s corner underneath a life-size, stuffed penguin where, days later while cleaning the room, Randolph’s baffled mother would find the eclectic lot.  Paperclip, dime, watch battery…why her perfect son desired these random items eluded her, but she shrugged it off, returning to more pressing affairs such as the incessant laundry and what would they eat for supper.

            In every way Randolph was an average boy but his peculiar penchant for collecting odd things continued throughout his adolescence. 

In elementary school, the fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Wintermute, uncovered over thirty gummy animals hidden in his desk.  A faint noxious smell led her to peer inside the cubby where he sat, and she was appalled as she extracted edible tarantulas, worms, sharks, and one licorice rat he had pushed into the far corner behind a Super Mario Bros. pencil box.  When Mother asked him why he wasn’t eating these candies, he replied that they were friends and he would be alone if he ate them.  Mother, used to his strange habit, fancied this was something he would one day outgrow.  Knowing girls would all-too-soon replace the comic books and baseball cards other kids were into, she hoped her beautiful Randolph would follow suite. Randolph never gained an interest in women but instead sank deeper into his unusual tastes and, while waking alone from high school, happened upon an item forever changing his life.

            A white glint protruding from outreaching weeds in the feral Dinglestein’s lawn first lured Randolph to the lot’s edge.  Kneeling, he reached into the overgrowth and extracted a chipped cat skull.  It was dirty and cracked over the left eye but the manner in which the empty eye sockets leered moved Randolph.  Looking over his shoulder and confirming no one witnessed his discovery, he tucked the skull under his yellow striped shirt and hurried home.

            Mother, still working the diner, wouldn’t return for an hour, so he utilized the alone time brushing away the remaining dirt with a whisk he found in his deceased father’s beard-trimming kit.  The soft bristles were from hog or horse and removed grime without abrading bone.  Some areas around the crown and left eye were terribly soiled and, after several failed attempts, Randolph applied a dampened cloth.  He was heavy-handed, snapping a diamond chunk off the left eye, and he gasped as the piece fell into his palm.  Wanting no further harm to befall his prize, he proudly set his trophy near the back porch underneath a blooming rosebush father planted.  Careful not to scrape his fingers on the thorns, he marveled at the picturesque world he created.

            Night passed like a glacier.  Desire gnawed on Randolph.  The only thing restraining him from visiting Father’s rosebush and risking discovery was the broken chip he clandestinely rubbed.  He told Mother nothing of his marvelous find and when the hour finally waned, he retired to bed, insane to hold his new friend.

            The next morning, he sneaked to the bushes and retrieved the skull from under a newly bloomed peach rose.  Walking to Bay High, he traced his pointer finger over the jagged cleft and wondered how the feline died.  Had the Dinglestein kid tortured the helpless animal?  Was it hit by a car?  So many mysteries for the mind to ponder.

            He reached school and, by the flagpole near the red cement tornado, he huddled, whispering to the skull.

            “You need a name.  I think I’ll call you Dulcinea.”

            The urge to kiss Dulcinea fluttered, knowing if anyone saw the act, he would realize a new level of hell.  It was cloudless day, and the courtyard was a common hang out area…too risky for a smooch.  The breezeway bathrooms were usually steady, but one of the stalls could provide the privacy he needed.  Glancing around, he brought Dulcinea near his breast and hurried to the men’s room’s red door, passing a couple pouring over a Spanish test riddled with red markings.  He pushed it open, ignoring the acrid stench the restroom harbored and entered.  He stopped and, as the door gently shut, relief swelled.

            He and his beauty were alone.

Multicolored graffiti littered the red and white walls and his footsteps squished as Randolph darted into the first stall, locking the door.  Someone ripped off the toilet seat so Randolph squeezed in the back right corner underneath knife-etched words reading Doug is a bugchasher, cradling Dulcinea.  Light flooding from the opaque transom cast an eerie glare in his love nest, but Randolph wrinkled his nose and smiled—Dulcinea never looked better.

After a brief examination he leaned in, kissed her crown, and shivers erupted through every pore, as if an inner flower opened and its radiant petals realigned Andromeda.  His momentary drunkenness shattered when the bathroom door opened and an invader squished into the next stall.  Holding Dulcinea in trembling hands, Randolph cringed at the sound of the unfolding belt and unzipping pants.  He needed to make a break for it.          

Before more mood-killing sounds emitted from his neighbor, Randolph opened the stall and rushed the exit but, as he reached the red door and swung it open, he bumped into the class bully, Slice.

Towering overhead, Slice was the only guy in the eleventh grade with a full beard.  He wore torn blue jeans, a HIM shirt, and he smelled like stale sweat.  He was absent from class often, and when he did bother to show up, teachers searched for an excuse to suspend him.  He liked to fight and steal—in seventh grade he broke some poor sap’s ribs, earning them both a little vacation time.  The system didn’t want to deal with the problem, so the schools kept promoting him further.  In no time they would be done with him.  The principals figured he would spend his adult life in the clink and couldn’t wait to serve him up.  Justice.

“Nocton, you fag,” he smiled, revealing his nicotine-stained teeth.  “What’s up weird-o?  Wanna drag off my cigarette?”

Randolph lowered his gaze to the damp floor.  “No.”

“Well, what’s that you got there?”

“It’s nothing,” Randolph snapped, trying to push his way out.  Slice grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him.

“Come on, let me see it.”

He shook Randolph again and Dulcinea fell from his grasp, shattering on the floor.

“NO,” cried Randolph as he kneeled to pick up the scattered pieces soaking up the bathroom floor’s muck.

“What the hell was that, Nocton?  A Skull?  What were you doing in here, freak?”  Slice shouted, watching the nerd wallow in the squalor.

Tears spilled from Randolph’s brown eyes and, leaving some of the smaller pieces behind, he fled from the men’s room carrying most of the skull.  He was so disturbed by the incident that he blew off third period and began the seven-block walk home.  Along the way, he stopped by a wooded lot and buried his lost love, Dulcinea, underneath a fallen pine, marking the hallowed spot with an empty Jolt Cola can.

That night, he didn’t eat much of the stew Mother lovingly prepared and retired to his room early.  Mother assumed he was feeling puberty’s awkward travesty and left him alone while she cleaned the table and washed dishes, settling into primetime television.

Randolph passed the evening sketching pictures of his beloved Dulcinea on computer paper sheets and assembled them into a portfolio.  Dulcinea, his first great love, was forever gone and Randolph had little means of coping.  After tiring of drawing, he cleaned his room, throwing away the things he spent his life collecting.  Bottle caps, Butterfinger wrappers, laundry lint, found keys, lighter flints—all in the round trashcan beside his desk.  He filled a plastic garbage bag with sequins, faux jewelry, pill bottles, and all the other things he found and claimed from the roadside and department store floors, throwing them into the large dumpster in front of his mobile home complex.  Mother said nothing as he returned to his room despite satisfaction her son was finally maturing.

That night, Randolph cried himself to sleep.

For the next few weeks he brooded about, even letting his pristine grades slip.  His teachers, concerned there were home troubles, alerted Mother, who assured them it was simply growing pains.  Amongst Bay High’s student body, rumors circulated Randolph was stealing pets, committing unthinkable monstrosities.  People originally avoiding his unique mannerisms now feared and detested Randolph, calling him a ghoul or a fiend in hushed voices as he passed in the hall.  Randolph cared less about their jeers, inwardly searching for escape.

It was a sunny November Friday, when an epiphany befell Randolph after an incident in the gymnasium locker room.

Always conscious of his thin frame and insubstantial muscles, Randolph waited until other students finished dressing out for Phys Ed before slipping into gray sweatpants and a white undershirt.  Endless wedgies and toilet swirls conditioned him to wait and, during one respite period, he noticed Andy Vance stroking a white rabbit’s foot.  It was old and patches of hair were effaced but Andy handled the foot as if were a priceless religious artifact.

“Where did you get that?”  He asked Andy.  Once considered popular due to his natural athletic ability, poor grades and a taste for deflowering virgins before abandoning them rendered him a pariah among the trendiest circles.

“Why do you care, Nocton?” He said with a puerile smile.  Extending the paw in Randolph’s direction he asked, “Do ya wanna touch it?”

Randolph’s eyes widened and he reached out for the charm but Andy pulled it away, his verdant eyes flickered with a hint of silver.

“Freak,” he said.  “You really are a ghoul.”  Andy chuckled and turned his tone figure away from Randolph.

Not sure what to do, Randolph left the gym and cut class, finding himself wandering the western side of campus.

Classroom 212’s door was ajar and Randolph noticed a lone girl wearing scrubs, surgical gloves, and safety goggles bent over a dissecting pan.  Guiding a silver scalpel across the belly of a fetal pig, she didn’t look up as he entered the room and approached her table.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I—I just want to watch.”  Randolph said, biting his lower lip.

The girl shrugged as she peeled the pig’s belly apart and pinned them to the tray’s black basin, exposing its innards to the florescent overhead lights.  The intestines jiggled and oozed when she pushed in the scalpel’s tip.

“This doesn’t gross you out?”

“No.”

“Most people think it’s cruel.  I think it is science.”

“Why are you doing it?”

“I want to see what its organs look like and compare them to ours.”

“Are we the same inside?” Randolph leaned closer as she cut away the stomach and lifted it from the belly’s formaldehyde stench.

“Sort of.”  She placed the stomach on the tray beside the pig and returned to the gaping hole she created.  “We have larger organs, naturally.”

“Have you ever cut into somebody?”  He quizzed. 

The girl stopped and they exchanged a glance.  “No, but one day I’m going to be a surgeon.  That’s why I’m putting in the extra study time.”

“What’s your name?” He rested his elbows on the table, peering into the pig.

“Sue.”

“You like cutting this animal, Sue?”

“It doesn’t bother me.  Did you know that when you die, they cut out your organs and weigh them?”

“Why do they do that?”

“So they can determine what you died from.”

“What happens to the guts after they’re done?”

“They put them back in—unless you’re a donor.  Then someone needy gets them.”

“What are you going to do with the pig’s organs when you’re done?”

“Probably throw them away.”

Randolph narrowed his eyes.  “May I have them?”

Sue chuckled, “What do you want them for?”

“Just to look at.  That’s all.”

“A little weird, but OK.  Maybe they’ll spark a passion for science and you’ll get into the field.”

Randolph smiled but before he could say thanks, a chubby teacher wearing tan slacks and a turquoise blouse entered the classroom and began erasing the chalkboard.

“Miss Doughnym, how’s it coming?”  She asked.

“Fine, I’ll be finished in about ten,” Sue replied, resuming her scalpel’s probing.

“All right, I’ve got another class in twenty-five so make sure everything’s tidy.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Dauphine,” Sue said as she began removing the heart.  “I’ll meet you at the tornado in a half an hour, OK?”

“Awesome, I’ll see you then,” smiled Randolph.  He turned and began exiting the classroom, nodding to Mrs. Dauphine as he walked out the door.

He passed the next twenty minutes pacing around the tornado, cursing Sue for making him wait so long and hating the school’s silly red and white statue.  He always felt the structure looked more like a pork chop than a tornado and wondered who had the bright idea to erect a hunk of meat for all the cars cruising along Harrison Avenue to laugh at.  He was picking his left palm with his fingernails when Sue finally approached, still wearing her scrubs and holding a liquid-filled Mason jar.

“Here you go,” she said, handing over the jar—several pink objects floated around a dark fig-like piece and Randolph shook the swine snow globe, enjoying his premature Christmas.

“What are they?”

Sue began pointing to the chunks floating in the jar.  “That oval one is a sublingual gland.  That is a spleen.  The big, dark one is a liver and this is a thymus.”

“How long will they last?”
            “Leave the jar shut and they’ll last a while.”  She turned and began walking away.

“Hey, wait,” He called.

She turned, crossed her arms, and smirked.

“See you around?” He asked with a smile.

She looked him up and down before walking towards the breezeway, but her absent response didn’t bother Randolph.  He smiled at his floating guts and began walking home.

Halfway there, happiness erupted in Randolph.  He realized he no longer needed to mourn the loss of Dulcinea.  The jar he now possessed was just the beginning of a collection unlike any the world had seen.  Sure, he still missed Dulcinea’s unblinking eyes but she would always have a special place in his heart.

He knew the jar would upset Mother, so he tucked it beneath the rosebush, rubbing his finger against the lid before retiring inside. 

Mother noticed a change in her son and, relieved he was no longer sulking, she settled back into routine.  His grades picked up and he began doing more yard work, mowing the grass and tending to her roses.  When he cleaned out the back yard shed her husband used for storing rusting garden equipment and unwanted holiday decorations, Mother rejoiced for her prodigal son was growing up.

What she didn’t realize was Randolph’s dubious intentions.

Fearing neighborhood kids would discover and breach the aquarium, he wanted a proper house to display its glory.  Father had been a passionate gardener before succumbing to a heart attack when Randolph was two, and removing his dilapidated equipment was an obvious choice.  Insisting on a yard sale, the next Saturday Randolph hauled tools, shovels, and mowers out font, selling it all at breakneck prices.  He earned two hundred fifty dollars for the wares and, upon handing every penny over to Mother and instructing her to pamper herself with a manicure or massage, he asked if he could assume responsibility for the shed, citing he needed space to study science and chemistry.  She agreed on the condition he let no mice or rats escape.

Randolph was delighted.

He went to Home Depot, buying locks to bar the aluminum doors and electric lanterns to illuminate the interior.  He swept and cleaned up the inside, and on the back wall he placed the jar on the center shelf on top of a cloth mat.  Before it, he set a chair so he could gaze into the jar and dream…

Thus began a collecting frenzy.  The freedom to display and fawn whatever he desired caused him to gather bones of all sorts.  Every time he happened across road kill, he would scoop it up and bring it home, remove whatever flesh remained with skin beetles ordered on the internet, and arrange the bones to look like the animal it once was.  He filled the shelves with these skeletal statues until he was entirely surrounded, his collection becoming so grand he was able to pick and choose.  He owned no double—every skeleton was unique and expertly articulated with wire and rubber cement.  He had a cat, a dog, a raccoon, a deer, a fox, a partial coyote, and several local birds.  Although happy with his collection, he felt he lacked the Holy Grail. 

The missing entry: a human skeleton.

There remained a space on the back wall beside the Mason jar reserved for his collection’s apex and Randolph spent days calculating a manner to obtain one.  At first he tinkered with the thought of robbing a hospital; however, tight security and the threat of jail time swayed him.  There were the hanging bones in Bay High’s science lab, but closer inspection revealed they were fashioned from plastic and unfit for his gallery.  Randolph toiled for a solution but found none, becoming more and more frustrated.  Then, one chilly March evening while walking past Greenwood Cemetery, a realization dawned.  If Randolph Nocton wanted a skeleton he would have to resort to a most abhorred measure of human behavior—grave robbing.

            There they were, hundreds of skeletons stuck in the ground and waiting to be plucked and displayed.  It didn’t seem disrespectful to Randolph.  Displaying them in his museum meant superior adoration and reverence.  Whomever’s grave he chose for upheaval would be treated like family, no longer having to lie alone in the cold ground, forgotten.  Once uprooted, the skeleton would be king of all the other collected creatures.  Randolph was giddy.

            He hurried home to gather one of Father’s remaining shovels, a lantern, and a duffel bag.  Under night’s asylum, he returned to Greenwood Cemetery, creeping over the iron fence into the tombstone labyrinth in search of his king.

            He wandered across several rows, passing headstones he deemed too old for uncovering, and began wondering how deep they were actually buried.  He hoped the night wouldn’t give way before he obtained his prize.  The gentle wind played the magnolia branches like a xylophone, their song relaxing Randolph.  Of course he had enough time.  The real burden was finding someone regal, someone deserving.

            He turned right at a weeping granite cherub and his feet planted themselves before a modest marker.  He kneeled and held his lantern before the epitaph, tracing the engraved letters with middle and index fingers.  The simple words leapt at him:

JENNIFER HUNN

1976 – 1999

ALWAYS LOST

            Randolph knew it was the right one.  All effort in finding a king seemed silly once fate delivered a queen.  Vowing to treat her like a goddess, he struck the shovel into her plot and began digging.

            The grave was relatively new, so the roots he happened across were not too thick.  The process went smoothly, but his hands began to blister under the work.  He couldn’t stop—not after coming this far.  He pressed on, imagining her delicate metacarpals and the work needed to preserve their intricacy.  He hoped her teeth were attractive, but decided if they weren’t, she would still be all right.  How much did her organs weigh at death; did she dole them out to needy recipients?  If so, than not only was she a queen, but a generous one, too.  All the more attractive to Randolph, now waist deep.

            As the hole deepened to his chest, another thought appeared.  If he was digging up a queen, what did that make him?  Since he was bringing his collection a queen it would stand to reason he would be…KING.  Yes, it all made sense.  He was king of the creatures he collected and they his obedient subjects.  His heart pounded and he thrust harder and harder until the shovel scraped the top of the grave liner, a cement block to keep the weight of heavy machinery cemeteries use from crushing the casket.  Continuing until he revealed the edges, Randolph used the shovel as a level and lifted the cement block up, exposing the casket.  Falling to his knees and unable to hold back the grin, his fingers ran across smooth pine, trembling at their payoff.  As he rose, the wind turned banshee, howling at him.  He ignored the wail, hitting the lid with the shovel until it splintered apart in several places.  Kneeling again, he pulled at the pieces and uncovered his queen, Jennifer Hunn.

            Six unkind years turned Jennifer’s flesh into tight leather, falling off her bones in places.  There were holes in her clothes where insects and worms crawled in and out, and Randolph smiled when he noticed she lacked a wedding ring.   She was waiting for me, he thought, reaching in and tugging on her left arm.  A smell burned Randolph’s nostrils; he pulled his black shirt over his mouth and nose as he yanked.  With a snap, her arm broke free and he stuffed it into his duffel bag.  Though the inky sky broke, he had beaten the sunrise, but reaching for her right arm, he heard heavy footsteps and froze.

            It was well known amongst Panama City’s children the bone yard’s keeper, Gavin McGraw, was half-insane and all drunk.  Twice a month the cops would haul him out of some bar so he could dry out, but he never harmed or fought anyone so the cops tolerated the antics.  He kept Greenwood pristine and hated vandals.  If anyone were caught gallivanting within fence boundaries after visiting hours, they would face his wrath before having to deal with trespassing concerns.  Rumor was he tended a special plot for kids trashing his quaint bone yard, and Randolph cursed himself for forgetting about him.

            Peering over the grave, Randolph saw McGraw approaching, holing a half-full bourbon pint.  His face was scrunched up as if he were ready to breath fire and Randolph shuddered to think how long it was since his last bath.  Randolph crouched over Jennifer, his hands clinging to the shovel. 

            He looked down at Jennifer and in the lantern light she looked sad.  Randolph knew it was because McGraw was coming to tear them apart.  They were destiny, meant to meet and be together, and Randolph would not let the old drunk interfere.  His footfalls were almost upon them and, before Randolph faced certain doom, he leaned over, kissing Jennifer and running his fingers through her dry hair.

            “What in the hell are you doing down there?” McGraw slurred, eyes afire with booze and hate.  He took another pull from the bottle and replaced the white cap.

            “Kissing my queen,” replied Randolph.

            “You sick little—I can’t wait till the cops hear this one.  They call Gavin crazy but this, this is crazy”

            McGraw leaned over to grab Randolph, but the ground at the grave’s edge crumbled, and he fell into the pit.  Randolph raised his arms, protecting his head, as the old man came down hard.  There was a snap and the undertaker lay motionless, his right arm spilling into Jennifer’s coffin.

            Randolph stared at the heap for several minutes before poking him with Father’s shovel, and McGraw did not respond to the jab.  He looked at Jennifer, glanced at McGraw, and looked at Jennifer again.  He had a job to finish.

            Randolph Nocton was absent the next few days day at school.  When he did return, he dragged through every class and listened with only half interest in the lessons.  When the final bell rang at three, he went to the western side of campus, to the science wings—there was someone he wished to see.

            In her scrubs, Sue was cleaning a retort in the back sink when Randolph entered.

            “Hey,” he said, “how have you been?”

            “Working on my scholarship.  Enjoying your pig parts?”

            “Yes.  How much do you have around here?”

            “I’m almost done.  Why?” She asked, placing the retort next to several drying test tubes.

            “There’s something I want you to see.”

            “Where?”

            “At my house, on Elm.”

            Sue dried her hands on a tan towel, tossing it into a garbage can.

            “Sure.  I’d love to.”

            They walked the seven blocks to the Nocton home, chatting about using insects to clean bones and then their subsequent preservation.  When they reached Randolph’s back yard, he pulled out the shed key and slid it into the lock. 

            “You’ve surprised me Nocton,” said Sue.  “Your knowledge is impressive.  Are you thinking about going into forensic sciences?”

            “No, I’m not too keen on school,” he said, removing the lock.

            “If you don’t, it would be a waste.  I bet you’d be tops at it.”

            Randolph smiled, “Thanks,” and opened the door.  He reached in, flicking the switch on his lantern, and casting light over the reassembled creatures. 

            Sue, unblinking, let her eyes follow the rows of bones: raccoon, cat, partial coyote, finally settling upon Jennifer, now wearing smeared makeup and dressed in a wedding gown.

            “What do you think of my queen, Sue?”

            Sue smiled.  “You should see my house.”

swimming

a princess gazes into the bewitchin’ pool
in love with her shimmering reflection
the catfish’s scaleless illusion transforms
bringing youthful beauty to the longing leper
she wades towards a moonlight cascade dance
tossing jewels and clothes aside
tributes for the wise whiskered one
she raises her arms out
leans back
floats supine for her gilled lover

last call

Death, my old friend
i perch upon this french quarter stoop to drink with you
raise your bourbon and meet my glass
let us not speak of darkness and gathering gloom
but the eternal feast ahead
shall we sing to the stars or the waning orb?

Death, my old friend
i knew one day we’d dance here under gas lamps and galleries
take in deep once more the mighty mississippi
let us send whatever coins and mardi gras doubloons left in our pockets
skipping across cobblestones before sunrise
have we enough time for chess?

Death, my old friend
i welcome you with open arms
a promise kept, though liquor-drenched
let us relive our glory, our lifelong courtship with
one more wine before locking arms and stumbling towards the abyss
will you whisper one last story?

Death, my old friend
i perch upon this french quarter stoop to drink with you

chartreuse moth

the club was alive. teenagers--reminding me how old i was. i was a difficult teenager. a hitchhiker. a bum. in my mid-teens i had a habit, and by my early twenties, i was a full blown starfighter. 

it's easy to get stuck in plagues. blink your eyes and over 9000 years pass. often i wonder if things would have been different if i didn't thumb my way to the crescent city, eat from garbage cans, and play music to a ceaseless lonely moon. perhaps we should all be like that desolate orb, lifeless, drifting...

all the punishment i've done to myself. there are no woes outside my own design. most people blame this or that, but i accept failure. it's all i've ever known. 

i thought the storm would scare away the kids, but they showed up in force. budding sexuality and braces.

drink away your teeth. turn the music up too loud. discover new gods in the middle of the night. with jagged fingernails, tear off the soft flesh. claw it aside. it's past bedtime. the lambs howl at the moon with friendship ponies. genetically i am falling apart. breakfast club dice games and spicy bloody marys. you know i'm a gambling man.

Working

Here is a look at the novel I am working on. 

In the binder is the first draft, pounded out during a nanowrimo exercise a few years back.  I failed by one day, hitting 50K words in 31 days, not 30.  On each page I keep track of what happens in every paragraph, what point of view (POV) each chapter is in, and what major plot points occur during the section.  I also look for type-os, leaps in logic or continuity, and anything else wrong in the rough draft.

The index cards on the left are character sheets, notes concerning everything I reveal about each player during the story's unfolding.  This helps me see their arcs without all the story distracting me from their paths.

The long cards above the binder are notes and questions I ask myself while reading the draft.  Sometimes there are things I need to add or subtract, and this is where those thoughts wind up.

The short cards on the top right are outlines.  Each chapter gets its own card, and on that card is a map of how the section unfolds.  By using these cards, I can move around the chapters if something needs to happen sooner or later; if I need to add a chapter, there is no problem--just fill out the info on a card and insert wherever it needs to go. 

I work with a revolving system.  I will pound something out from an outline and then put it away for a while, let it simmer while I cook something else up.  When the time is right, I return to the work and begin this editing process.  The simmering time is different for each project.  CONVERSION PARTY took ten years of edits, cutting, adding, and recycling before I decided it was time to publish. 

If a story comes to mind while I am in serious writing mode on something else, I will make a detailed outline, and put it in the idea book.  CRYPTID ( a Bigfoot/Skunk Ape story, wink, wink), is something that is outlined but put up comes to mind.

What are some ways you write or create your art?

Bounty

Pat pushed open the Pale Horse Saloon’s swinging double doors and entered the dim building’s dusty belly.  His boots clumped on the wooden floor, echoing through the smoky, liquor-drenched air as he approached the clean shaven barkeep polishing a glass tumbler with a white handkerchief.  By flickering candlelight, Pat caught a glimpse of his reflection in the long mirror adorning the back wall.  He flipped two gold eagles on the bar; well-versed in the business, Pat knew some barmen tempered their wares with turpentine or passed off cheap tequila in fancy labeled bourbon bottles, but he hoped the generous coinage would win a quality product.

“Whiskey, two glasses, three fingers.”  Pat rubbed his bushy mustache as the lanky barkeep fetched the order.  Barely thirty-one, frontier life and bartending at Beaver Smith’s had made Pat’s face wise.  Still handsome, an edge in his eyes betrayed a part of his soul carefully tucked away.  Gambling, heavy drinking, and being on the right side of the fastest iron coarsened Pat so that inside he felt as rugged as the surrounding New Mexico Territory landscape.  His scars illustrated a wild lifestyle, but the star affixed to his chest cemented authority.

The barkeep filled both tumblers halfway with the amber liquid.  “Anything else for ya tonight, Sheriff?”

Pat took the bottle from his hands.  “This will do.  Ready another.  I’m drinking with the boss, and we both know how thirsty that white liner gets.”

The barkeep palmed the coins and pulled out another bottle from under the counter.

Pat grabbed the two glasses and headed to a corner table where a squat man sat, smoking a thin cigar and drinking beer.  He set the filled tumblers in center of the table, beside a nearly burnt-out candle on a small circular dish; white wax spilled over the rim, pooling on the table.  “Mind if I join ya with a little white eye, Pete?”

After another long drag of his cigar, Pete nodded and let blue smoke spill from his nostrils.  It twisted and undulated, vanishing into the dark air.  His Christian name was Pedro, but he changed it to sound more American after taking over his father’s ranch and surrounding buildings in Fort Sumner.  Pat worked for him a few years back and found Pete kind, despite his penchant for whiskey.  Though two years younger than the Sheriff, Pete looked older: a receding hairline and a crooked, decaying tooth complimented his sun dried skin.  Despite everything his father bequeathed, Pete could not escape time or bad habits. 

It was same for every man. 

Pat sat across from him, resting the uncorked whiskey bottle beside the tumblers.  Pat slid one of the filled glasses forward, taking the other and raising it up.  Pete returned the gesture.

“What are we drinking to, Pat?”

“To health, Pete.  To health.”

As soon as they finished their shots, Pat refilled the glasses.  “Where is he, Pete?  Where you got him hid?”

“You got the wrong pig by the tail, Pat.  He’s not here.” he said, never taking his eyes off the whiskey in front of him.

“I’ve heard he’s been lurking around Fort Sumner past few weeks.  Hiding in these parts like some fat dog tick.”  Pat raised his glass and the men knocked back the shots.  Pete lit another cigar, Pat poured another glass.

“What you’re up to is bad business, Pat.  Leave him alone and go back to Lincoln.  Get behind a bar; go back to Apolionaria, she’s a good wife.  Let that man roam the wilderness where he belongs.”

“That’s no man, Pete.  He’s a monster.”

“Call him what you will, let’s drink.”  Pete raised his glass, clinking it midair against Pat’s before downing their shots.  This time, Pete poured the next round.

Pat leaned back in his chair.  Years of bartending conditioned his liver—he could hold liquor as long as Atlas held Earth, but serious work was at hand.  He needed to keep a clear head.  “Really, Pete, how many men has he killed now?”

“Not as many as they claim.  It’s all corral dust.  I wouldn’t put much stock in anything those rapscallions say.  With that mark Governor Wallace put on his head, lots of lips have been flapping lately.  Seems like money makes men liars and traitors ‘round these parts.  Seems to turn friends against one and other.”

Pat ignored the jab.

“Word around the campfire is that he’s got a soft spot for your sister.”  Pat studied Pete, searching for any tell.  “She back at your place?”

“Leave Paulita outta this, Pat.  Her business is of no concern to you.”  He swallowed hard.  “We gonna drink or not?”

“In a moment.  Pete, when I worked for you, I gave my all.  You were a good boss, and I know you’re a good man.  Your father raised you right, proper.  You tolerate Billy, but he’s on the wrong side of the law.  When Lincoln County appointed me as Sheriff Kimbell’s successor, I swore to restore law and order.  I intend to keep that oath. The last thing we need is a killer glorified into some kind of hero in the newspapers.  Makes others want to take arms, start trouble.  This territory is filled with enough vigilantes and rustlers.”  Pat lifted his glass.

“You’ve been bringing down the Regulators,” Pete said before draining the shot.  Pat held his.  “But Billy is another matter.  You’re a decent shot, Pat.  That’s true.  Billy’s aim is from the gods, though.  Against him you’re dead, and death don’t look attractive on any man.” 

“Listen here, Pete.  There’s more at stake here than you realize.  I’m not gunning after him just because of the money.” 

“I’m sure that sweetened the deal though.  Build your name up in politics and line your purse—sounds rather Republican to me.”  Pete’s words were becoming slurred around the edges.  He filled his glass again.

“I’ve been tailing him for seven months, getting to know what and who he knows.  Billy is like a black-tailed prairie dog, always burrowing, always hiding.  He’s slippery, and he has friends all over, helpin’ him hide.  He’s a folk hero to ‘em.  They think he’s in the right, killing those men.”  Pat drank half the whiskey in his glass.  Pete motioned to top him off but was halted with a wave of the Sheriff’s hand.  “After he escaped from the Lincoln Courthouse, I started hearing rumors about him.  Not the kind of things from the papers either.  Things no God faring man has any business saying.”

“Them rapscallions,” Pete said, “they’ll say anything.  Like women after church or a whore after a tumble.”

“That’s what I thought at first too.  Then there were more and more stories about the carnage Billy was leaving.  Stories to ice blood.”

“What stories?”

“Some cattle had been mutilated around Taiban, ‘round where Billy’d been sighted.”

“Cattle?” Pete leaned forward.

“The ranchers whispered it was the Kid, that they’d seen him late at night, killing the livestock.  They all blamed an Indian living near Stinking Spring where we nabbed the Kid last December.  That Indian’s an old Mescalero shaman named Espemez.  He’s a pariah, his tribe drove him out, claiming he was tapping into bad spirit world energies.  The hill folk call on him from time to time when they need services that are…outside of the white man’s capacity, if you follow.”  Pat paused.  “If medicine isn’t helping, or an old cowboy needs to fix his impotence, Espemez has a cure.  Or if someone or someplace is being haunted....”

Pete laughed.  “Haunted, as in ghosts?”

The sheriff did not smile.  “Story goes Billy gets the old Apache to perform some sort of ritual, giving him…powers.”

“Powers?”  Pete snorted.  “Pat, you’re an educated man.  I’ve heard you tell some whoppers over a tipple, but this…  A man’s life is on the line.”

“I told you.  He ain’t no man.”  Pat leaned back, tugging his mustache.  The wooden chair creaked under his weight.  “Truth be told, I didn’t believe it at first.  Thought Billy just cooked it up himself to scare locals so they would stay out of his way.  Me and a few of the boys rode to Stinking Spring and found that old redskin’s camp.  The horses were spooked when we came up on it.  They wouldn’t go near, so me and Deputy Mason and Frank Stewart left the horses with Jim East and Lee Hall as we came up on what was left of the shaman.  Billy made short work of Espemez.”

“Don’t sound like the Kid to shoot up some Indian, especially after seeking sanctuary,” Pete said, fumbling with the whiskey bottle.

“No.  Weren’t bullets that killed the Indian.  Espemez had this look of terror on his face, like he died frozen in horror.  There were marks on his face and throat—marks from no animal I’d ever seen.  Not tracks around either, just boot prints.  There wasn’t a drop of blood in that man.  Not a drop.  This…this smell hung around the camp, like death but worse, and we all felt like something was watching us.  Pete, I can’t tell you the relief I felt when we skinned out of there, and you know I’m no coward.”

Pete smirked.  “I’ll drink to that.” 

Letting his gaze fall across the bar, Pat saw an old grandfather clock beside a silent piano.  The face read 8:31 as the pendulum swung back and forth, a metronome counting mortality. 

“We came up on this little church near Taiban Spring.  The walls reeked with the same stench surrounding the shaman’s camp.  We found the priest, his body broken, marked up the same as the Indian.  ‘Cept this time it was worse, like the killer took time to enjoy his work.  Not much left of preacher man’s face.  Again, no blood anywhere.  Just those same boot prints…heading west.  Towards here.”

Pat finished the shot.  Pete chuckled.

“That’s a good one, Pat.  Had me going a spell.  When you get done hunting the Kid, you should write this all down.  Might make you a rich man.”

“Dismiss it if you’d like, Pete.  You don’t have to believe me.  But you should know we just found some more cattle.  They were ripped apart—worse than the others.  He’s losing control, Pete.  Not just murdering, but destroying.”

“Why should I care?” Pete looked away from the sheriff.

“It was your cattle just marred, Pete.  It was the Kid, swear to Christ.  He is coming here with that soft spot for your little sister.  He’s coming here, Pete.”

Pete furrowed his brow as sweat beaded across his face.  For the first time fear simmered in the rancher’s eyes.  “The Kid has been around.  I’ve heard him and Paulita late at night, talking in whispers.  I know he’s dangerous to other cutthroats, but he’s always been kind to her.”

“He ain’t the same happy-go-lucky man you knew.  He’s something else now.  If you’d seen the destruction he’s left behind his trail, you’d want him shot too.  Why protect him?” Pat asked.

“Seems like the world’s changing faster than I’d like to admit.  Every year, more law comes down on us.    I suppose it was inevitable, but I miss this country’s freedom.  I miss the way things were.”  Pete shook his head.  “I guess I protected him because I was protecting the past.  Sounds silly, but it’s the best I got.”

“I’ve come to you as a man, Pete.  Out of respect for my old boss, my pal.  I’m going to your place.  I’m going to wait for the Kid with Paulita, and when he shows, I’m gonna end his godforsaken life.  I would rather your permission, and I would despise your scorn, but I am the law.  I’m going with or without your consent.”

Pete rested his palm flat on the table and sighed. 

“Thanks for coming to me first, Pat.  It means a lot.  I love Paulita.  I never want any harm to come to her.”

“Me neither.  I want the killing over.  Stopping the Kid is the best thing for this great territory.  Paulita is in trouble, Pete.  Your little sister.”

“If you feel the need to protect her, by all means.  I would consider it a great service.  Her room is in the southeast corner, ground floor.  I’m already half-drunk, so I’ll just be sitting here, finishing what I started.”

Pat nodded.  “Finish the bottle.  I got another one waiting behind the bar.  Thank you, Pete.  I’ll see no harm comes to Paulita.”

Pat rose, scraping the chair’s legs on the floor as he stood.  Pete grabbed the sheriff’s right arm, halting his exit.  “I don’t want to be remembered as a coward, Pat.  Or a traitor.” 

Pat pulled away…

The sheriff rode through the July night towards Pete Maxwell’s ranch.  A coyote wail wafted in the wind and somewhere, close, an owl answered, the soundtrack to stars glimmering overhead.  Pat dismounted his steed, hitching her on a post outside of Pete’s white fence.  From his saddle bags, he produced some rope and held it by his side.  The home looked quiet, the only light burning in Paulita’s corner room.  Pat entered the yard, stopping in front of her room.  He took a gulp of the night before entering unannounced.

Paulita sat up in her bed and whispered, “Billy?”

"¿Cómo estás, Paulita?" Pat said, thankful he’d arrived before the Kid.

Paulita gasped and started to leap out of the bed, but Pat moved like a rattlesnake, throwing his weight on her as he covered her mouth with his sleeve.  She tried to bite his arm, but his duster muted the attack.  Ranch experience and a taller frame made him no match for the fighting beauty.  She squirmed as Pat roped her down, tying her to the oak bed posts.  He gagged her with his dirty red bandana, deliberately making it too tight so she could not scream.  After securing her, he was able to see Paulita in the dim gas lamp light.  Straight dark hair fell past her shoulders, and her large brown eyes watered as she flopped like an injured scorpion on the bed.  Pat pitied the woman—her only crime was loving a creature of darkness.

Pat turned the wheel at the gas lamp’s base, softening the room’s illumination.  He grabbed a chair by a desk and sat beside her headboard.  Paulita tried to say something to him, but he did not want to risk removing the gag so she could warn the Kid.  He stroked her lovely hair until she gave up struggling, and the room fell into an eerie quiet.  Time seemed to halt for the sheriff, yet his heart beat like the old clock back at the Pale Horse Saloon.

It was after midnight when Pat noticed the smell.  The acrid death looming over Billy’s victims poured into the room like cigar smoke.  Pat swallowed hard and drew his single action cavalry revolver and pointed it at the closed door, cocking back the hammer so it was poised to strike the first bullet in the cylinder.  Five chances to right justice and stop evil.  Paulita’s bedroom door slowly opened.  She squirmed as the door opened and Pat prayed she did not blow his cover—sweat poured down his back as he aimed.  When the door swung open, Pat had to suppress a scream.

In the doorway stood Billy the Kid’s unmistakable silhouette—the wide brim sombrero and tall, thin build—but his eyes were aflame, burning rubies glowing in the desert night.  The thing that was once Sheriff Pat Garrett’s friend paused in the door way, sensing something was amiss with the scene.  Pat noticed the Kid’s fingers were now elongated claws, poised to draw his Colt .44. 

"¿Quién es?” the Kid called into the room.  The words dripped with a jagged, ethereal quality.  “¿Quién es?"

Pat fired twice—the first struck the Kid’s chest, a shade above his heart, the second nailed him between the eyes, knocking off his hat.  The monster howled.   Its wraithlike bawl rattled the walls, and the Kid flew out of the room.  Pat rushed to the doorway in time to see the fiend’s radiating crimson eyes rise up, up into the New Mexico night, becoming swallowed within the infinite blazing stars until they were nothing, nothing at all. 

One of Pete’s ranch hands, dressed in pajamas and carrying a pistol, ran towards the sheriff.  “Is everyone all right?  Sounded like an animal attacking.”

Pat raised his revolver and squeezed off two more shots.  The man fell, crumpling on his side in fetal position.  The spilling blood creeping outwards from the ranch hand’s body reminded Pat of the candle wax at Pete’s table in the saloon.  He scooped up Billy’s sombrero and tossed it on the body, sighing.     

Still tied to the bed, Paulita thrashed about.  Pat returned to her side and pulled down the gag. 

“Bastard,” she said.  “How could you shoot him?  He was your friend.”

“My fried died a long time ago.  I don’t know what has been visiting you, but it wasn’t Billy.  You’re a lucky woman, Paulita.  He could have ripped you apart, left little pieces for your brother to bury.”

“He would never harm me.  We were going to leave together, head to Old Mexico after he made peace with Wallace.  He wanted to see you next Wednesday, make peace with you as well.”

“Hogwash, there was never going to be peace and you know it.  If he did take you with him, he would have damned you too.”  Pat began untying her, a sadness welling in his heart.

“Billy will kill you for this.”

Pat looked towards the body outside.  “He’s already dead.  He died here tonight.  That’s what we are going to tell everyone.  Kid’s smart.  I pray he’ll take the cue, stay gone.  Hopefully that monster will take what’s left of his soul and that smell of death and vanish forever.”

Paulita rubbed her wrists, red and swollen from the rope.  “Sheriff, the only monster is you.  There is no difference between you and him, except he actually stood for honor.  You, you only stand by yourself.  He’ll never be gone, sheriff.  Never.  And from now on you’ll have to look over your shoulder.  You’ll never shake that smell.  It will follow you on the trail, all the way down to hell, sheriff.  That is your fate.”

Pat looked out into the night.  Pete was right, the world was changing.  And no man can escape time or bad habits.  No man.