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The BlotterThe BlotterMarch 2017 MAGAZINE
Wonderful, wonderful, with Nathan Elias,Anonymous, Phil Juliano, and The Dream Journal
THE SOUTH’S UNIQUE, FREE, INTERNATIONAL LITERATURE AND ARTS MAGAZINE
visit www.blotterrag.comTHE SOUTH’S UNIQUE, FREE, INTERNATIONAL LITERATURE AND ARTS MAGAZINE
visit www.blotterrag.com
Wonderful, wonderful, with Nathan Elias,Anonymous, Phil Juliano, and The Dream Journal
G. M. Somers ....................Editor-in-ChiefMartin K. Smith...........Publisher-at-Large,
TreasurerMarilyn Fontenot......................Director of
DevelopmentLaine Cunningham...................Publishing
ConsultantBrace Boone III... .........Marketing AdvisorRichard Hess.................Programs DirectorT.J. Garrett....................Staff Photographer
Subscriptions Contact:
Martin K. Smith
919.286.7760
Advertisers Contact:
Martin K. Smith
919.286.7760
Submissions and Editorial Business to:
Jenny Haniver
Garrison Somers, [email protected]
919.933.4720 (business hours only! you
may call for information about snail-mail
submissions)
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COVER: “Creator finds inspiration,”from our archives.
Unless otherwise noted, all content copyright2017 by the artist, not the magazine.
The BlotterThe Blotter is a production of
The Blotter Magazine, Inc.,
Durham, NC.
A 501 (c)3 non-profit
ISSN 1549-0351
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The B l o t t e r
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“A response to my daughter, whenasked the age-old question
‘why do I need to know this?’”(With Deepest Apologies to Meredith Wilson)
Math for the income tax, math for the purchase price,math for the road map, math for the meal’s tip.Math for the miles per hour.Math for the adding and subtracting and the total,Math for the cook book, a cake baking recipe. Math for the teaspoons and the gallons and the tablespoons.
Hey, what did you get? Whatdidjaget, whatdidjaget, whatdidjaget, whatdidjaget?What was your answer?Whatdidjaget?
You can add up a column, you can figure, you can add. You can figger,figger, figger, you can add all you want.But the difference is the words that they use in the classroom now
No it aint, no it aint! You just gotta have a glossary!
Tick tick tick tick tick you’re running out of time.
It was those damned ancient Greeks who first got us all to thinkin’ ‘bout it, started all the trouble back six five four three a couple thousand years ago.The man was named Pythagoras, and the problem is his theorem,You don’t have to understand, you just gotta memorize itMath taught by Euclid, Cones by Eudoxus,Numbers thought a lot about by ari-ari-Aristotle.Back when there wasn’t even measurement for demijohnsThey sat around and thought a lot on side, side, angle, sides.Multiplying fractions, what is the denominator?Rectangle, pentagon, three-point-one-four-one-five-nine-two-six-five…You’re running out of time, tick tick tick tick!!!
Can you solve for x when x equals a coefficient?there’s absolutely no efficient way to solve for x.Can I please use a calculator?
MAGAZINE
We often use Bobco fonts, copy-righted shareware from theChurch of the Subgenius.
Prabob. We also use Mary JaneAntique and other freeware fontsfrom Apostrophic Labs and other
fonts from other sources.
in the Great State of Georgia!
aThe Blotter Magazine, Inc. (again, a501(c)3 non-profit) is an education
concern. Our primary interest is thefurthering of creative writing and
fine arts, with the magazine being ameans to that end. We publish inthe first half of each month and
enjoy a free circulation throughoutthe Southeast and some other places,
too. Submissions are always wel-come, as are ad inquiries.
Subscriptions are offered as a premi-um for a donation of $25 or more.Send check or money order, name
and address to The BlotterSubscriptions, 1010 Hale Street,
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same by e-mail:[email protected].
sCAUTION
Good morning, good morning, it’s such alovely
(Gone gone, gone are the teachers with the white chalk.Gone are the days with the pencils and the slide rules.Gone the bottle-bottom glasses sliding down their greasy noses.Pocket-protectors, full of protractors.Short-sleeved white shirts stained in the underarms.)
Whatdidjaget, whatdidjaget whatdidjaget for number forty-sevenWhat was your answer?
I dunno, I dunno, I dunno, I dunno. What’s the square root?
A locomotive going forty-seven down an inclineMeets another train leaving Iowa on SaturdayHow many passengers will have to get a hotelAnd buy another ticket if they want to get home?
Please work the problem out to seven decimal places! Seven? Seven! Seven? Seven!
Show your work, show your work, show your work, show your work.
Show your work.
But I have to use the lavatory!!!
Garry - [email protected]
March 2017
page 3
Darryl got a job cleaningrooms and working the frontdesk at the Park Lane Radissonin downtown Toledo. It was herpreference to work the nightshift when the real creeps andcrazies showed their faces,between midnight and sunrise.When Darryl interviewed for thejob, her boss, Mr. Ornacki, astout, balding man with a gray-ing ponytail, bragged about allof the stars who used to stay at
Park Lane during its heyday. “We’ve had our fair share of
celebrity,” the man had said.“You name it. Miss MarilynMonroe, herself. Ella Fitzgerald.Bob Hope. Cary Grant. And,my personal favorite—” heleaned across his desk, his voiceat a whisper, “The notoriousgangster, Al Capone.”
Darryl’s eyes widened at thename, as if to impress her poten-tial employer, even though shewasn’t familiar with Al Capone’scrimes.
“Are people allowed to stayin the room?” she asked. “Wasthere blood in it?”
The man’s eyebrows wrig-gled like caterpillars.
“Some might say that is partof the allure of the suite.” Heopened the bottom drawer of hisdesk and lifted a key ring withhis pinky. “Would you like thegrand tour?”
Once Darryl and Mr.Ornacki were inside the suite,Mr. Ornacki dead bolted thedoor and cracked his knuckles.“Just our luck,” he said. “Thesuite happens to be vacant. Wecan really take our time now.”
“So this is it?” Darryl said,inching further into the vintage-designed room. The walls, palegreens and blues, bounced lightfrom the wide window overlook-
ing the Maumee River. With theoceanic beams Darryl felt likeshe was in an aquarium, Mr.Ornacki an eel writhing aroundher.
“As you can see we haveretained the Modernist and ArtDeco interior.” He sat down onthe velvet, celadon couch andstretched his hairy arm across itscrest rail. “You happen to bestanding in the very spot whereMr. Capone himself purchasedthe Tommy Gun he’d use in theSaint Valentine’s Day Massacrefrom the then-owner of ParkLane.”
Darryl looked down to herfeet, imagining the transactiontaking place—the dirty cash, thecold steel and bullet shells. Sherealized working at the hotel washer dream job.
“Are there many opportuni-ties for growth in this establish-ment?” she said.
“I’m going to say to youwhat Al Capone said to theowner before he shot him on anearlier replica of this couch.” Mr.Ornacki eyed Darryl up anddown, circling his palm on thecushion beside him. “‘Why don’tyou come over here and findout?’”
She sat down beside him,resisted the urge to shudderwhen his sweaty fingers pinchedthe back of her neck. As hemounted, her clothes foundtheir way to the ornamentalflowers woven into the Persianrug. Darryl would have liked tothink that it wasn’t the onlything that got her the job. Thiswas the first time she’d been
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“The Al Capone Suite”by Nathan Elias
New book project from Phil Juliano!!
'Little Peej and Spencer: The Amazing Time
Traveling Toy Rescue'. A novelized version of
the syndicated comic strip, 'Best In Show'.
This story has all the typical issues a seven
year old has to deal with: bullies, homework
and a little sister. What's different? Our
seven year old hero begins his story as a
middle-aged comic geek so nostalgic for his
prized Star Wars toy collection that he devis-
es a way to go back in time to retrieve them.
Of course, things don't go according to plan.
Expected release Winter 2016/17. Follow
along with the project at
www.facebook.com/PeejandSpencer. and help
fund / advance order via
http://www.gofundme.com/peejandspencer
with a man since leavingKnoxville. She would have likedto admit that it wasn’t going tohappen again.
“I got a good feeling aboutyou,” Mr. Ornacki whispered inher ear, that familiar reek ofbooze on his breath. An imagecame to Darryl’s mind—thePark Lane owner lying perforat-ed with bullet holes, the babe-faced gangster standing overhim. Life and death, shethought, her eyes focused on therays of seafoam light. Shackingup wasn’t exactly her top priorityafter her life fell apart and hersiblings had to save her with agood old intervention. Howcould she possibly think ofbeing with a man or having sexafter her son’s accident? Darrylswitched to autopilot after thefuneral, after leaving Florida,after returning to her isolationin Tennessee. It was a miracleshe lasted the two months untilher siblings drove down to herrescue.
Her older sister, LaShae, andtheir baby brother, Zane,abducted Darryl from her down-trodden house in Knoxville and
transplanted her to Toledo.Three years, four jobs, and onesuitor later and Darryl was nocloser to escaping depressionthan she was in her overgrownhillside garden eating dead, rot-ted blueberries. At least in thethicket of wilted flowers andbruised, heart-shaped tomatoesshe wasn’t chastised for readingSylvia Browne instead of theBible. Her siblings didn’t knowwhat it was like to wonder ifevery stray animal that walkedinto their yards could be thereincarnation of their child.They didn’t know how louddarkness spoke, that spectralhymns were the only logic to itsempty volume. Believing thatthe penumbral presence couldbe her son was the only thingthat made Darryl’s sleeplessnights bearable.
She didn’t argue her siblingsabout leaving Tennessee forOhio. Zane singlehandedlypacked most of her entire houseinto the back of a Two Men anda Truck rental while LaShae keptDarryl from drowning in misery.
“That’s the price we pay forloving with our whole hearts,”LaShae had said. “That’s the costof love.”
“What exactly is the cost oflove?” Darryl said, a bottle ofrum clenched in her fist.
“The pain of loss,” LaShaesaid. “The cost of love is thepain of loss.”
“Like you know the pain ofloss,” Darryl said. Her bottle ofrum was empty. Her heart feltthe same way.
“We both lost our father,brother, and aunt in a car acci-dent on Christmas Eve in1972.” LaShae’s eyes locked onDarryl, her nose scrunchedbeneath indented, painted-onbrows. “We were both forced tolearn how to grieve when wewere children. I can’t have chil-dren, so no—I’ll never be ableto fully understand what you’regoing through. But I am yoursister and I can tell you what I’velearned. There’s only one personyou can love with your wholeheart and never feel the pain ofloss. Our Lord and Savior, JesusChrist.”
“And one thing I’velearned,” Darryl said, “is thatthere is no point in loving a godwho lets your son take his life.Like I would want to be in heav-en without my child.”
Outside Zane cursed as abox dumped to his feet, theresult of Darryl’s shoddy job atpacking up her life. He lit a cig-arette, kicked something metal,and slammed the door beforewalking inside to find his sistersin a heap on the floor.
“New plan,” he said. “I’m
page 5
March 2017
“Who gave these idiots microphones?”
Tuesdays at 10:00PMThe Blotter Radio ‘Zine
www.wcomfm.orgChapel Hill & Carrboro, NC
not going to break my back try-ing to get all this into a truck.Take a day to get the things youabsolutely need and you can staywith me until you get on yourfeet.”
*Three years and still Darryl
wasn’t on her feet, living in thespare room of her brother’shouse with barely any money inthe bank. Since working at thehotel Darryl paid for the gro-ceries and even helped withZane’s electric bill. It was theleast she could do to feel like shewasn’t freeloading. A month intothe job and Darryl already hadthe flow of Park Lane ingrainedlike second nature. For once shefelt like there was hope in retain-ing a job, that she might actuallybe good at something. Lookingdown at Mr. Ornacki sprawledout on the celadon couch aftertheir bi-weekly “security inspec-tion”, Darryl would button herjeans and think that she coulddo his job and then some.
Each night she learned asmuch as she could about thebusiness and upkeep of thehotel. She was surprised at how
many of the hotel guests wereregulars, practically living out ofthe overpriced rooms. Half ofher job entailed chasing awayvisitors that were unpaid for,louses trying to take advantageof the hotel’s amenities for free.No, sir. Not on my watch. Darrylhad been let go of on the spotplenty of times to know not tolet this job slip through her fin-gers.
*On Saturday night Park
Lane was at maximum capacitydue to a technology fair at theConvention Center. Darryl had-n’t seen Park Lane with novacancy since the week she start-ed and the president was intown. Every hour she double-checked the registry to verify theamount of guests that were allot-ted to each room. Next to theoccupancy list she kept anotepad and tallied the differentpeople who walked in and outof the doors: tired businesspeo-ple, kicked-out husbands, poten-tial prostitutes—these were thecategories with the most tallies.
So far the amount of guestsadded up since the start of her
shift—not a single guest over theallotted count in the hotel reg-istry. She was hoping that Mr.Ornacki would see how tight shecould run a shift and promoteher to Assistant Manager. Maybethen she’d be able to afford mov-ing out of Zane’s house.
It was quiet for a Saturdaynight, the only ruckus comingfrom Rochelle Evans, a robe-wearing elderly lady in room205. Complaints rang to thedesk about a sound similar to acat’s yowling, in-heat mew.Darryl worried that Rochellehad snuck in secret suitors.Maybe she’s just trying to get her-self off, Darryl thought. Lordknew she’d been on that side ofloneliness—but she’d never let ahotel full of people hear her inthe process.
Darryl picked up the deskphone and dialed room 205.
“Hello?” Rochelle said, herpanted breath like static comingthrough the telephone wires.
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“Hi, Rochelle, this is thefront desk,” Darryl said.
“Everything’s fine, Darryl,”Rochelle said, her heavy breathsmetronome-constant.
Darryl fanned the pages ofher book.
“Could you just keep itdown, please?” Darryl asked. Sheflipped through the chapterabout how to discover your ownpast life.
“What are you readingtonight?” Rochelle asked.
“Sylvia Browne,” Darrylyawned. “The Other Side andBack.”
“You know all that stuff is asham, right?” The womansounded amused, a sharp chirpbehind her rapid inhale, exhale.“It’s all a bunch of new agehooey. Don’t believe everythingyou read, Darryl.”
“I’ll take stock in whateverI’d like, thank you very much,”Darryl said. “And we’d appreci-ate it if you kept your voicedown, please. It sounds likethere is a wild animal dying inyour room. Thank you.Goodnight.”
Darryl slammed the phonedown and smiled. She wasn’tabout to let some town-maidendestroy the one thing that kepther connected to her son.
*When 2:30 A.M. rolled
around Darryl made her roundsto each floor of the building forroutine security inspection. Deskclerks were instructed to checkfour times throughout their shiftto make sure there were noemergencies or alarming activity.
Everything seemed fine until shegot to the third and final floor.This was where the penthousesand most celebrity suites were,mostly reserved for VIP guests.Tonight Dr. MacMorton, a sci-entist, occupied the Al Caponesuite. Darryl had helped himwith a late-check in on the firstnight of the technology conven-tion.
“Is there a bell boy?” Dr.MacMorton had asked. Hepeered down at her through histhick glasses and reddened, cop-per mustache. Darryl wasn’t ableto pin point his accent otherthan somewhat European. “Orperhaps a doorman? I need somehelp taking very fragile equip-ment to my suite.”
*“I’m the clerk, bell boy,
door man, and maid,” Darryljoked. The man didn’t return alaugh. “I’d be happy to help youwith your equipment.”
The largest piece required aspecial dolly to wheel up toroom 317. It was twice the sizeof the scientist, shaped like TheLiberty Bell. The product lookedunfinished, as if it needed a coatof paint or polished plastic.Wires stuck out through metaltubes and fine glass protruded,unprotected. While Darrylpulled the contraption behindher, the scientist kept a distancewith his fingers extended, readyfor something to fall apart.
Once inside the room, thescientist gathered the miscella-neous pieces, hoisted themachine from the dolly, andbegan reassembling it on the
floor between two double beds. “You expecting company?”
Darryl asked. The scientist looked up
from his tooling hands. “Oh,you mean the beds. It was allthat was available on such shortnotice.” His voice went hoarse ashis gaze returned to the device.“And quite my luck to stay inthe same room as Al Capone.”
“Don’t mean to be rude—it’s just my job. Can’t lose thisone, too.”
“A good vocation is difficultto acquire these days,” Dr.MacMorton said, eyes fixed onconnecting a monitor largerthan the hotel television to thebell-shaped machine. “I under-stand Mr. Capone utilized theconvenience of Toledo whileexpediting bootleg whiskey fromChicago to New York. As far asethics are concerned within theperimeter of this facility, I’msure you lean on the side ofvirtue.”
He stuck out his hand toshake hers, a fifty rolled betweenhis fingers.
“No tip necessary,” Darrylsaid. “Just happy to do my job.”
“Virtue,” the scientistrepeated. “An unlikely quality insuch a fragile economy.”
Now, standing outside ofthe Al Capone suite, Darrylstood in the glow that beamed
March 2017
page 7
from the creak between the sci-entist’s door and the carpet. Amuffled zapp accompanied eachflicker of the light. It remindedher of oversized beetles gettingfried in her electric bug trap.
It first occurred to Darrylthat the light and sounds camefrom the television inside theroom. She hovered in front ofthe door, body quarter-turned towalk the other way in case thedoor to room 317 suddenly flewajar. The zaps grew less frequent,the light on the floor dimmingto blackness.
Then came the sound of amoan—not the pleasurable kindcoming from Rochelle Evans in205, but the kind a person letsout when witnessing somethingboth terrible and beautiful andthe same time. The kind ofmoan her ex-husband let outwhen their first son,Christopher, was born. The kindof moan she let out when shegot the call that their secondson, Clark, had died.
“Hello?” a soft, sheepishvoice called from the other sideof the door.
Darryl froze where shestood. With the occupancy listin her hand, she reaffirmed thatroom 317 was checked out toonly one guest.
Someone’s in there whoshouldn’t be, she thought. It washer duty as night clerk to verifythat no unaccounted guestsoccupied the rooms.
“Don’t let my hotel becomea whorehouse,” Mr. Ornacki hadsaid on her first shift alone.“And keep an eye out for gang-sters. This city ain’t likeKnoxville.”
Now the entire corridor wassilent and dark.
“Hello?” the bleating voicecried again. “Hello? Daddy?”
Darryl’s head turned as sheinched away from the door. Herfist floated in air, prepared toknock, though she couldn’t willherself to disturb the muted airof the third floor. As she beganto tiptoe away the door flungopen, filling the dark hallwaywith a pale verdant glow.
“Is there anything I can helpyou with?” the scientist said.
“I heard something,” Darrylsaid. “Someone. Someone else.”
The scientist cocked hishead, the green light refractingfrom his round eyeglasses.
“You’re a perceptivewoman.” He stood aside, allow-ing entry into the radiant suite.“I’m working on a very impor-tant project. For the convention.I’m afraid I’m quite behind in
my work.”“Who is in there with you?”
Darryl said. “See for yourself, I am unat-
tended.” He nodded, urging forDarryl to enter. “The voice youheard was a projection from themachinery you saw previously.”
She stepped forward, feign-ing courage as the strange lightenveloped her. The door closedbehind her, the bolt locked auto-matically. She turned the cornerpast the bathroom and there itloomed—the machine, its frag-ments constructed into a tower-ing hourglass that stood fromfloor to ceiling.
A sculpture, she thought. Amonstrosity.
“The voice you heardbelonged to my daughter. She’sno longer with us. Passed twoyears ago. She was seven.”
“It’s not easy to bury yourchild,” Darryl said.
“No,” Dr. MacMorton said. I know how you feel, she
wanted to say, to share in theconnection of loss with thestranger. Instead she moved overto the machine where upon alarge computer monitor shonethe image of a little girl’s smilingface. One of her front teeth wasmissing.
“It’s still in beta testing,” thescientist said, “but the resultshave been surprisingly accurate.It’s supposed to go live at theconvention this week for thefirst time.”
“I don’t understand,” Darrylsaid. “What is this? What does itdo?”
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“The idea is to utilize fig-ments of data from people’s livesand recreate a digital, interactivepersona of an individual. Ibelieve that it will be able tohelp those who have experiencedgreat loss. Imagine being able totalk to a loved one after they aredeceased. However, I’ve onlybeen able to run the softwarewith data coded from mydaughter. And since her life wasso short the system doesn’t havemany facts or personality traitsto go on.”
“My youngest son was nine-teen when he passed,” she said.
The scientist removed hisglasses and stepped closer toDarryl.
“Access to your son’s belong-ings, anything that could recre-ate his digital persona—it couldhelp me advance the demo pres-entation at the convention.”
Darryl wished she’d kept hermouth shut. There was a reasonshe never brought up her son’sdeath in conversation.
“I’m not sure that would bea good idea. I don’t know if I’mready for something like that.”
“Allow me to ask you aquestion. Have you ever layawake at night, tossing, turning,questions rolling around thecreaky floors of your mind likemarbles? Questions you wishyou could ask but will neverhave the chance to?”
Every night, Darryl wantedto say.
“I know I have,” the scien-tist went on. “It’s why I createdthis machine. I knew that I
wouldn’t be able to rest until Icould see her face again, speakto her as if she were really here.”
The machine overshadowedDarryl and the scientist. Hisdaughter’s toothless grinwidened under blinking eyes.
“Isn’t that right, Vanessa?”He reached up, stroked themonitor’s frame with his hand.
“That’s right, Daddy.” Herrosy cheeks, round face and pig-tails reflected off each lens of thescientist’s glasses.
*Instead of going to church
Sunday morning with LaShaeand Zane, Darryl searched thedank basement for the last tracesof Clark—water-damaged boxescollecting mold and cobwebs.She couldn’t get the image ofDr. MacMorton’s machine outof her head. His daughter’s voicesounded awfully real—organic,yet hollow. Access to your son’sbelongings, anything that couldrecreate his digital persona—thescientist’s tone had went frommournful to ambitious. Out ofthe five boxes Darryl broughtfrom Tennessee, three of themcontained the remnants of herson’s life. Her siblings didn’tquestion whether or not theseobjects would be a waste ofspace in the end, and now theymight actually prove helpful inthe name of science.
Once everything wasstacked in a neat pile upstairs,Darryl fought the urge to plugin Clark’s computer. After threecigarettes she decided that resist-ing was futile. She pushed the
‘on’ button of the laptop, hopingfor the hundredth time to findanswers to the questions thatprevented her from sleeping.The old Dell computer beepedas it illuminated through thecracked screen. A photo ofbright, sunny Tampa lay behindscattered files and folders on thedesktop.
With her hand on the com-puter’s mouse, Darryl stared,transfixed, at the photo ofTampa as if she were there again.Nineteen years had passed sinceshe gave birth to Clark there,and twenty-two years since herfirst son, Christopher. She leftFlorida to escape her ex-husbandeight years ago. Clark took hislife there one year ago to theday. Darryl thought that thefolders and files in disarray, scat-tered across the Tampa coastline,were a reflection of her son’smind. Little squares with indis-cernible names overlapped eachother, the natural system of rowsand columns foregone in orderto compensate his frantic, unor-ganized workflow.
The folder that she hadbeen unable to open in threeyears, the folder that’s innardsgave her relentless anxiety, wastitled “Goodbye”, and lay over-lapping a photo icon of Clark’sfiancé, Sasha. Darryl double-clicked “Goodbye”, the folderinstantly widening to the size ofthe screen. A single file, an unti-tled text document, was savedinside the folder. A lightning-sharp migraine jolted throughDarryl’s temples. I should get
page 9
March 2017
some rum for this, she thought,but before she realized it the textdocument had opened and hereyes fixed on the opening words.
Dear mom,I am really scared because I
keep thinking that I can’t makeher happy anymore. Maybe I’mnot the right man for her. I keepthinking of suicide—
Outside Darryl heard Zane’struck pulling into the driveway.She coughed, her throat dry,lungs heaving, and shoved herthumb into the laptop’s powerbutton. The front door openedbefore she could put a blanketover the open boxes of Clark’sold things. She heard LaShae’svoice, upbeat with post-churchrigor.
“Pastor Luke had a goodpoint when he brought up Peter2:24—he himself bore our sins.”
“I think I might need totake a break from ushering,”Zane answered. He undid hiscollar button and went to thefridge for a beer.
“I take it I didn’t miss any-thing new,” Darryl said. Sheappeased LaShae and went onEaster Sunday, but her visits hadadmittedly grown less frequent.
“You’re looking throughClark’s things,” LaShae said. “Iseverything okay? Should I callPastor Luke?”
“It’s not what you think,”she said. “At the hotel there’s thisman. A scientist. He built amachine that will let me talk tohim.”
LaShae sat down in therecliner next to Darryl andunfolded the wrapper of a stickof gum. “I don’t think thatmachine will let you talk toClark anymore than SylviaBrowne will, Darryl.” LaShaestuck the gum in her mouth,smacked her lips as she chewed.
In the kitchen Zane fum-bled to secure his beer properlyin its cozy. Outside the sharpwhistle from a train echoed—the tracks behind Zane’s housewere close enough to shake thesmall building when freighterspassed. As the train grew closerthe siblings stayed silent, pre-pared for the deafening sound todrown them out.
*Darryl packed the laptop,
photographs, journals, letters,birthday cards, and voice mes-sages into a duffel bag and kept
it under the front desk for theentirety of her shift. Althoughtempted to fiddle with the con-tents of the duffel bag, she kepther eyes on the guests passingthrough, often half-awake inwalking comatose. Wheneverthe lobby emptied she’d reachfor the duffel bag, stop herself,and instead reopen The OtherSide and Back. What wouldSylvia Browne say about the sci-entist’s machine? Darryl couldsummon Sylvia’s raspy smoker’svoice from the countless audio-books she’d borrowed from theLucas County library. We choosethis life before we come to thisbody, she envisioned Sylvia say-ing. We each search for our ownTruth.
There was nothing sayingthat she had to go to room 317after her shift. She could call thesuite and tell him that she’dchanged her mind, that she did-n’t like the thought of her son’safterlife as a science experiment.The image of the folder fromClark’s desktop came to Darryl’smind—he had named the folder“Goodbye”. It took her all thistime to find the strength toopen that folder.
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The front desk phonechimed and Darryl dropped TheOther Side and Back to the floor.
“Front desk,” Darrylanswered.
“Is there something wrong,Darryl?” It was Rochelle Evansfrom room 205, her breaths slowand distanced for once. “Youhaven’t called to check intonight. And I didn’t see youwalking the halls. I was worriedabout you.”
“What do you think hap-pens to our souls?” Darryl said.Sylvia Browne’s photographstared at her from the floor nextto Clark’s duffel bag.
“I once heard that NativeAmericans refused to have theirphotographs taken,” Rochellesaid. “They thought it wouldsteal their soul. Disrespected thespiritual world. But what do Iknow about the soul? I can’teven keep a man.”
“Everything is fine,” Darrylsaid before hanging up. “Andthank you for checking.” As sheclicked the phone to the receivershe looked up to find her boss,Mr. Ornacki, standing over herwith The Other Side and Back inhis hands.
“I told you about readingon the job,” he said. “How can Iexpect you to keep my hotelunder control if you’re busyreading this hocus pocus crap?”He dropped the book into thewastebasket, his ash-white pony-tail wagging behind his head likean injured dog’s.
“I guess there’s probably notmuch room for growth here,then,” Darryl said. She picked
up the duffel bag and startedaround the desk. “And to think Iwanted to be AssistantManager.”
“Right,” Mr. Ornackicracked a yellow-toothed grin.“You’d have to put out a lotmore to move up in a place likethis, honey.”
“You can find yourself anew clerk,” Darryl said. Shereached into the garbage can,withdrew the now coffee-stainedcopy of The Other Side andBack. “I ain’t your damn whore.”
The scientist waited forDarryl and opened the door assoon as he saw her through thepeephole.
“I thought you might notshow,” he said. He took the bagfrom her hands and searched itscontents while Darryl lingeredin the corridor.
“I brought what you askedfor,” she said.
He took the duffel bagfrom her hands, surprised by itsweight.
“I do believe this will suf-fice,” he said.
Darryl followed him into
the suite. The same glow, likenuclear energy, radiated fromthe monitor attached to the tow-ering machine. Dr. MacMortonsplayed the contents of the duf-fel onto the corner-most bed.Clark’s laptop. Photographs.Journals. Letters. Birthday cards.Voice message tapes. Darryl gri-maced as the scientist ran hisgloved fingers along the items.
“Be careful with all that,please,” Darryl said. “I don’thave anything backed-up. It’s allI have left of him.”
“Don’t you worry,” the sci-entist said. “I treat all of my testsubjects with the utmost careand tenderness. I’ll need to dosome troubleshooting with theequipment before we get start-ed.”
“Do you mind if I sit down,then?” she asked.
“Of course not. Please,please.” Dr. MacMorton openedClark’s laptop. “First I’ll have toaccess all of his social profiles,emails, messages, photos,archives—you know, the basicdata that guides behavioralinformation.”
“Right,” she said.
March 2017
page 11
“Behavioral information.” His fingers clacked on the
keyboard the way Clark’s oncedid. Would his fingerprints beerased after this? After fortyminutes of tinkering with thelaptop Dr. MacMorton alternat-ed to the photographs andscanned them all, one after theother popping up on the moni-tor attached to the bell-shapedmachine.
“Now to copy vocal pat-terns,” said the scientist. Heinserted the voice message tapesinto an old-fashioned player,updated to connect with themonitor.
“Hey, mom, it’s just me,” avoice rang from the monitor’sspeakers.
Darryl sprang back, nearlytipping the chair over.
“Wanted to call and tell youHappy Birthday.” The voice wasyouthful, male with a thinsouthern drawl.
“I wasn’t expecting to hearthat,” Darryl said.
“My apologies,” the scientistsaid. “If you’d prefer, I can mutethe voice messages until webegin the test run.”
“Yes, I would prefer,” Darrylsaid.
“Right, then.” The scientistcontinued troubleshooting with-out another word to Darryl.Watching him pick throughClark’s things gave her chills, asif witnessing a coroner at workon a corpse, the suite hismakeshift mortuary. After anhour he turned to her and said,“It is still an imperfect product.”Darryl blinked, double-takingthe image of her son’s face onthe monitor. It smiled when itsaw her, glitching with everysmall movement. “We put moreemphasis on the reliability of theintelligence. We will smooth outthe presentation once we receivemore funding.”
Darryl felt a dampnessenvelop her skin. The air in thehotel room went cold. Inside themetal bell came a sound like aflock of hummingbirds flappingtheir miniscule wings. Themotor, Darryl thought. Don’t for-get that this thing is just amachine.
“Hey, mom,” spoke theimage of Clark on the monitor.His brown eyes, his wide grin—it was not so different thanSkyping with Christopher. Thepicture lagged and then resumedClark’s natural flow of move-
ment. Darryl looked to the scien-
tist. “It’s perfectly normal torespond to it,” he said. “It canrecognize you and operates withfull retina registration. It seesyour movement; it hears youspeak.”
Clark’s face retained itssmile, waiting for Darryl toanswer. If only she were reallySkyping with him. If only itwere really her son greeting herso casually.
“Hi, Clark,” she said. Theinside of her stomach heavedlike a broken vacuum cleaner.She wanted to suck the wordsback into her forever. Domachines know the differencebetween ghosts and angels? shewondered.
“How are you?” the imageasked. “How is everything?How’s Chris?”
Darryl looked to the scien-tist, unable to keep her eyes onthe monitor. It felt like lookingat the sun—if she stared for toolong she’d go blind.
“What is the point of this?”she said. “Why would I tell allmy personal information to acomputer? It doesn’t care aboutChris.”
www.blotterrag.com
The B l o t t e r
“He might,” the scientistsaid. “It’s a symbiotic experience,this technology. It possesses atype of intelligence similar toplaying chess against your com-puter—only on a much larger,powerful, personal scale.”
“That machine is not myson,” she said.
“Well of course not, thismachine lacks a soul. But if youapproach the machine with anopen mind you may discoveruncanny resemblances betweenits ability to relay informationand your son’s unique, individ-ual personality.”
A series of thuds came fromthe other side of the door—evenClark’s digital eyes averted toseek out the cause of the noise.“You got my woman in there?” agroggy voice said. It was Mr.Ornacki’s—drunk, Darryl esti-mated. “You in there, Darryl?You think you can just quit andsleep around with my guests?”
“This was a bad idea,”Darryl said. She reached for theilluminated buttons on themachine, pressing randomly inhope of making Clark’s face dis-appear.
“Stop it,” the scientist said.“You could damage my work—you could ruin everything.”
“I’ll break this damn doordown, you hear?” Another seriesof nonsynchronous thuds camefrom Mr. Ornacki.
“Dear Mom,” Clark’s voicestarted. “I am really scaredbecause I keep thinking that Ican’t make her happy anymore.”
“Turn it off,” Darryl cried.
“I keep thinking of suicide,”Clark went on.
“The system must be errati-cally accessing data from thehard drive,” Dr. MacMortonsaid, his attention on the needsof the machine.
“I don’t care what it’s access-ing, turn it the hell off.” Shestarted to gather Clark’s assortedbelongings from the hotel bed,shoving them back into the duf-fel.
“I just wanted to love her,mom, but she didn’t love meback,” Clark’s voice started tobreak up, like the other end of along-distance call. “I’m sorrymom. I just wanted her to loveme back.”
The suite’s door flew openwith a booming crack, thesound like sharp axe to freshtimber. Mr. Ornacki stood inthe doorframe, his shadowed sil-houette rising and falling witheach of the man’s breaths.
“I don’t understand,” thescientist said. “I pulled thepower to the mainframe. Thesystem should be down, themachine should not be run-ning.”
“Please forgive me,” saidClark’s face on the monitor. “Ijust couldn’t see another way tonot feel like this.”
“It’s okay,” she said. All thelights in the suite went outexcept for her son’s face, its glowcombating the darkness. She cra-dled the monitor in her hands.“Everything’s going to be okay.Momma loves you.” v
page 13
March 2017
The DreamJournal
real dreams, real weirdPlease send excerpts from
your own dream journals. Ifnothing else, we’d love to readthem. We won’t publish your
whole [email protected]
Here are two things I don’twant to happen. I don’t wantmy memories of childhood tofade into vaguery that may ormay not seem like something Idid. That tree we sat under,was it a maple or a sweetgum?I don’t quite recollect. Was iteven a tree at all, but actually astreetlight that was burnt outbecause the twin boys down theroad got a b-b gun for theirmutual birthday. No utilitycommission can keep up withboys with good eyes and lots ofb-bs. Or were they cousins thatspent the summer together? - ofan age following their fathersbeing of an age, close enoughto be interested in fishing andrunning with barky old houndsafter the neighbor’s cat andjumping bicycles over creekswith no fear and no helmets.The other thing is that mymemories only come back tome as dreams, occasional andwith all of the bright colors oflawns and tulip gardens fadedto pleasant pastel shades butstill disappointing because Iknow that they were once loudand glaring and quite some-thing. Don’t let that happen,either.
LL - cyberspace
www.blotterrag.com
The B l o t t e r
“New Orleans, 1998”by Anonymous
The daypack frame grinds my shouldersinto raw meat,as Zero and I cross the yellowedGreyhound floor.Before I can wash Memphis off my face,a young street kid in orange board shorts walks up next to us,heaves my bag.He only has a few bucksbut we are down to hang andgo in for half. We agree to weed and beers. Me, Zero, D.Outside: animated, dark eyes give his spiel“I’ll bet you a dollar I can knock down this tree...”With my bare hands... I know this one,and before I can finish my thought,his hands tapping down the tree,tourists smiling,his handstheir pockets.We drink 40s of Jaxand shoot pool at a French Quarter dive whose name I’ve forgotten.Green dope-sick girl meltson next door stoop as we exit.She gets D’s last five(“be well, sweet”)
***
My roommate at the hostelon Carondolet (“let not lay”)had gone for the day,and I needed a reading,
March 2017
page 15
CONTRIBUTORS:
Nathan Elias is a writer and filmmaker from Los Angeles, CA. He is currently a candidate for the MFA inFiction at Antioch University Los Angeles. In his spare time he can often be found with selling art with hiswife at Venice Beach. His writing has appeared in Hobart, Literary Orphans, Birdville Magazine,Dogzplot, and placed second in the Toledo City Paper Fiction Contest 2016.
This particular Anonymous’s work has appeared in many publications, including: The Brooklyn Rail, RedSavina Review, Haiku Journal, The Review Review, and Into the Void (UK). He/she resides in NewJersey.
Phil Juliano of Bloomington, MN, is a good Blotterfriend. Follow his adventures on philjulianoillustra-tion.com (and check out his current project on page 4).
had been drinking since noon the day beforetipsy, buzzing, feet sore, walking uptown, and down, St Louis cemeteriesone two and threeBurgundy StMarignyBywaterdepositing myself at the Saturn Bar in the ninth ward (gone now)all murals,shirtless young black men with sag-pants, bassy hip hop, pre-bouncein sagging strut cars,doorags,and I float to my table for the evening,next to the wrecked jukebox,playing Ernest Tubb and Al Dexter sidesfor a dime and ninety cents on Pabst,buying rounds with that group ofAustrian backpackers.Anyway, I’d made my way back to the riverthe next morning, my last 20 for the week burning my pocketand there she was,at a card table on the cobbled river footpath, looking at melooking at her,and I liked the way her eyes looked.
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