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tribute to me and then she’ll get all dolled up to go out for drinks with friends. See, I’ve perfected it. — Drew Cleveland blake’s
Roman Holiday “My wedding ring!” she cried. “It came off when I threw the coins!” “You lost it?” “I’m so sorry!” “I’ll go after it,” I said, unlacing my shoes. “Like Marcello Mastroianni.” “Don’t be a spectacle.” “We’ll dance all night,” I tried. “On that barge on the Tiber. Then, when they drain the fountain at dawn ….” “No. I’m exhausted.” “We’ll buy you a new ring tomorrow,” I offered. She smiled and took my hand. “I saw one I really like in a window on the Via del Corso. It’s only thirty thousand lire.” “Did you make a wish?” I asked. — John M. Daniel ncj
iheartbreak This morning after reading the local news on my Kindle Fire, I logged into my email, only to receive notification that I had gone from “in a relationship,” to “single.” My text plea was thwarted by T9, letting my now former lover know that “I love Yahtzee.” I poured myself an 11 a.m. glass of scotch and lit up a cigarette; cursing myself, caller I.D and the “like” button on her relationship status update. I stared at the spot on my end table where the house phone used to be and wondered what I missed more; her or 1996. — Brian Millett ncj blake’s booklegger
Letting Go Wyatt returned to the ranch yesterday, beat up, broke, smelling like a polecat. I told Morgan to quit early and fire up the cookstove. After supper, Wyatt
northtown books winner
The Catcher in the Night He cried again. My wife groaned, “My turn.” “I’ll go. I’ve been awake since last time.” I grumped to the night-lighted nursery and leaned over the crib to change the amonia-perfumed diaper, then held his sobbing body to my chest, resting in a rocker. I promised to protect him from the cold attacking his body, and from all life’s slings and arrows, if only he’d let me sleep. Deal. Peace filled the room, the strongest feeling I’d ever known. We both slept in the rocker that night. Next morning, I was the one with the cold, and no regrets. — John M. Daniel
you need to die.” “Shut up,” Tom muttered. “Please, shut up.” It did. Tom sighed, relieved. The whispering started. Tom groaned. People were staring. They couldn’t hear the whispers. Tom stood abruptly, suddenly determined. He headed for the roof. Officer Lynn watched as the So hard to choose! jumper’s corpse I will go with “The was loaded into the Catcher in the Night” ambulance. The cop because of the writing sighed at the waste. and the sentiment. “Davy Lynn, Davy Judged by Monika ZerLynn, fire your gun, zan, a bookseller blow your face in.” at Northtown Startled, David Books in Arcata. looked at the paramedic standing beside him. “What was that?” told stories about rodeos, grizzlies, gold The man frowned. “Huh?” mines, and whorehouses. Morgan just David blinked. “Sorry, nothing.” sat there. — Mariah Southworth This morning Wyatt rode off grinning, booklegger 50 bucks in his new shirt pocket. “How long you reckon he’s gone for Visiting My this time, Pa?” Morgan said. “I wisht he’d Mother’s Hometown stay away. You never quit work early on The ocean outside immense Manila, my account.” an aggravating sprawl of people, strucI saw I’d lost another son. I pulled out tures and traffic, is dotted with countanother 50 and said, “Better saddle up less houses built on stilts. Corrugated quick. Maybe you can catch him.” tin roofs or traditional nipa huts of mat— John M. Daniel ted, dried palm leaf. Thatched bamboo or fallen billboards for walls. ncj Carrying everything, men, women The Voice and children paddle boats, or anything. The voice was singing again. “Tommy Planks of bound bamboo poles kept Bly, Tommy Bly, adrift with empty plastic bottles. Green kill yourself, two liter soda bottles, small water bottles, tied underneath. “What happens during a typhoon?” “No more! Just garbage on the water!” “But there is typhoon every year!” “Ya!” I stop the car and take a picture. — Issa Stemler
14 NORTH COAST JOURNAL • THURSDAY, APRIL 26, 2012 • northcoastjournal.com
ncj northtown
Guilty of Baptism I watched a spider die in the shower today, though he tried hard to escape the torrent. I did what I could to spare his life, purposely scrubbing myself out of range while he struggled up the ceramic tiles, desperately searching for shelter. As I shut off the faucet, his legs stacked in neat ninety degree angles and his face pushed tightly against the smooth surface of the tub. I thought maybe he was using an ancient survival technique passed down through generations of bathing spiders, but in reality, he had died of suffocation. I mourned the spider’s death. — Matt Berman ncj blake’s booklegger
One Morning in a Minnesota Graveyard Larry the vault man was hung over. He mixed up the Peterson and Pederson graves “No one will notice,” laughed the gravediggers, covering the headstones with dirt. Few attended the spring burials. The undertakers and us. Six of us placed the coffins over the open graves. The vault man fidgeted lowering the caskets. We made jokes. It was a beautiful April day. Waving goodbye we shoveled dirt in the holes. Larry opened a beer, “What happens in the graveyard stays in the graveyard.” We gravediggers laughed as the dirt hit the top of the coffins with a thud. — Tim O’Leary continued on page 16