LYING LIVE

[for Lou Cuba, my grandpa]


In ten seconds, you'll be seeing black.

This heart of darkness will flood the body and edge into the crema of your daily joy.

In just ten, nine, eight, seven... sadly, and surely: 7, 8, 9, even 10 grams of your personal bliss will be lost forever.

This single ounce of geography, this concentrated old man will curl up and imbibe its own flavorful dreams, those born from a far-off idealistic tree.

This shot glass will deliver its promise only in the memory or imagination of your senses.

Here: drink this juice, take it all in; sip or slurp, and do enjoy your break from the mundane.

But don't you take for granted these moments in their movement.

For everything will begin its steady fade to black.

The aroma of death is slinking toward us.

I know of what I speak.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge


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[for all our friends who purchased the long-awaited hardcover.]

We go hand in hand. This is how we roll. We stroll through the village, pause at the view of gardens, childrens, injuns; the chattle and commerce amuses us and I squeeze your hand to remind you of all those profound feelings I have for you. Then...I pull you close and we run, baby. We run out of the square, dodging bicycles and old teachers' dirty looks and we run into the forest. There's always adventure in the forest and high drama pairs well with romance, so we run into the woods.

But, the wind wakes up, lifting the branches above us like wings, up and down all wavy-like. It's odd and disconcerting and so we run further into the depth of greens and browns.

But, that wind! Good God, that wind pulls till we stumble over ourselves and give in to the invisible river of oxygen and...something, something else. Something with a mind of its own.

You leap upon my back and wrap your arms around me and suddenly, with the soundtrack of "Fire, thrusters! Go!" blazing in my head, we fly, fly, fly! My cheeks feel paper clipped to my face and I can hear your tears. Oh God, this hurts soooo cool!

You scream, "How? How are we...how is this?"

"I...don't...know!" creaks through my gritted teeth.

This beast child of spirit and air decides to show off for us. Gusts from the right push us around the mighty oak and the pull from ahead sets us gliding over deadly branches. This, baby, this is a miracle adventure.

Only then do I see what's coming in our path, what's racing toward us: the cliff at the edge of the woods.

I try to dig my feet into the ground, but the wind lifts us higher still. Then, I try to cover your eyes. You push my hand away and whisper in my ear, "What if it wants to take us over?" The arms around me grab tighter. Between the embrace and the pull, my body feels yoga-alive. I think, but don't say, "...impossible."

My heart is an overworked and underpaid piston. My ears are con-men, 'cause I know I hear fire. But, I'm breathing like someone who finally enjoys life.

Stop. Then, suddenly: stop. The wind lets go completely; cutting ties with no pullback or sonic boom. We drop a few inches and land feet-first, two feet from the cliff.

It's a bit...anticlimactic. And I can't help but peak over the cliff, then quickly pull away. ("Yup. That's a drop. Yessssiree.")

I can feel you tug on my shirt, so I turn around to find all the greens and browns have found the glamour of red, yellow and orange. I can hear their makeover thundering in my ears, too familiar all along.

They go hand in hand. The forest fire before us, the deadly drop below. We look for the wind, crying tears that do not blow away. We look for a way out. Up and out, oh God, up and out...

WILL: It's beautiful. I love the tones you used for the fire.

JANE: You don't think they overpower the scene?

WILL: No, no, no. The couple, they capture your eyes immediately. The girl's expression totally grabbed my attention from first glance. It truly is a beautiful painting. (pause) I love you.

JANE: You don't think it's too depressing?

WILL: No. There's always a way out. (pause) The wind is tough, sure. But...he's loyal.

JANE: You're retarded.

WILL: You love me.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge


www.lulu.com/yhfiction

[for Matt Chauta]


The wind is heavy, hot and filled with disaster. At least, that's how Eva Vroome reads it as she drives on a dead end course for San Fransisco. This has been a solo run for 200 miles now. There was simply not enough time for 35 people to pack up without questions that would only waste her time. There's no time left and each passing heartbeat reminds her of what could be lost.

"Eva will be here; don't you worry. If we were really in trouble, she'd let us know with more than enough time to escape."

She tried to explain her strange intuition once to a couple of her followers. But, Eva knew she was losing them every time the younger injected a "right" or a "yeah" into her monologue. They'd follow her anywhere; but their doubt would slow down the caravan by 15 miles an hour at the very least. Explanation is worthless to blind believers and word-repeaters.

"Her message could have meant anything. It was too garbled to make out, lovey. Don't you worry. If it's important, she'll call us back."

In front of the bungalow home belonging to her oldest and dearest childhood friend, Eva Vroome lept off her still-purring bike. She screamed at the top of her lungs as she ran up the exterior stairway. Two minutes later, four safe souls sat silently as Ms. Vroome told her tale from the passenger seat of a white Ford Escort. They sped out of town and called as many friends as the cell towers would allow before the quake shook the devil's snow-globe for the first time in a decade. Eva thanked God for strange premonitions. She whispered a prayer of thanks for a bike built with enough fortitude to arrive in SanFran in the nick of time; for a bike designed with enough courage to become a sacrificial lamb.

"Margie just called. She's fine, just some minor structural damage to her place. But, she said our second floor is sitting in our driveway."

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

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[for Mark Missona]


Jordie’s father lives a complicated routine. When he leaves the mill, he skips “happy hour” with the boys and heads straight home. He always speeds – usually, 10 miles over – but, he slows down to 5 under once he turns down the gravel road that leads to the main house.

Jordie’s father strips down in the garage and throws the stink of his day into a pile in the corner. He sprays his head with water from the washing machine in mid cycle. Finally, he enters the house and greets his wife with a kiss. With an aware joy, he lives in that moment.

Jordie’s father eats three portions of potatoes and brownish greenbeans. He’s silent throughout dinner. His children laugh and fight while his wife hums a tune she heard earlier that day on the Christian radio.

Jordie’s father takes out the garbage and dries off the dishes his children dutifully washed and rinsed. He packs up his toothbrush, floss and razor. He almost forgot his blanket and pillow. After turning out all the lights, he kisses his wife’s forehead and whispers, “Sweet dreams.”

Jordie’s father starts the ignition and drives the three miles to his mother’s house. He uses the spare key hidden behind the garden gnome to unlock the back door. He walks carefully to the bedroom on the left; the one with the open door.

Jordie’s father leads his pillow and comforter into bed. He places his things on the nightstand. With his eyes tightly shut, he tries to fall asleep before dawn. He lays in this tiny bed and prays for the ache to abandon him.

Jordie’s father prays to be forgiven for killing his younger brother. He wishes to be 13 again, laughing and fighting with his dead brother. Tomorrow might turn out differently. But, he knows it probably won’t. He knows the ache has a very strong memory.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

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[for Melody Seoane]


Whenever Eva flies, she buys magazines from the overpriced newsstands at Chicago O’Hare, LAX or TIA. She’ll read anything with a good feature interview on somebody’s ‘come-back’ story. The beauty of their disposable nature fits the inherent risk of trusting your life to a steel bird at the guidance of an alcoholic. So, Ms. Vroome enjoys the glossy pages and the roasted peanuts every time she rides the blue expanse of oxygen and CFC’s.

“But, I rarely fly. When I can drive? There’s no comparison. I want to smell that loss of time pouring out of my muffler; oh, I’d much rather ride than pretend I can trust someone else to lead my travels. Never mind the magazines; because a cross-country trail demands the company of a paperback anyway.”

They say Eva Vroome inherited an ungodly library fine when her father passed. Let's do the math...twenty-five cents per pulp novel X a virtual home front bookstore of titles he never intended to return = a memory of dear old dad that pissed her off and brought on a laugh in unison and under the strangest of circumstances. The bill was forgiven upon receipt. They just wanted their books back. Of course, she agreed. Even after decades of rebellion, these books belonged on their long silent shelves. Her deceased father’s basement was a sorry substitute for home.

“But, dad traveled almost as often as we do. He signed up for library cards in every county he sneezed in. So, I bring a stack with me on each voyage and return them to the proper drop-off whenever serendipity allows.”

When she pulled out of the West Austin branch parking lot, there was a weathered copy of THE FALL by Camus lying at the top of the return bin. If you were to open the book to page 59, you’d find a gift from Eva Vroome herself: one crisp Abe Lincoln pulling a John Wilkes Booth as a bookmark.

“But, don’t bring that up. It’s just my way of pushing dad through purgatory. ‘Sides, have you spent time at a library lately? Have you seen who hangs out there all the sad daylong? I figure, a little bit of Coca-Cola money might cheer up the next reader, even if they’re down on their luck. It’s nothing. Don’t bring it up, okay?”

When “times are tough for dreamers,” you can always count on her for spot of kindness. That’s Eva Vroome for ya’.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

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[for Jarrett Hoss]


A: But, ma’am… Please, consider your actions carefully.

B: I am, I am. Listen to me. I don’t want anything to do with it.

A: But, he specifically left it all to you. The estate is quite well defined.

B: Oh, so he wanted me to keep these?

A: That’s correct.

B: He desired for me to own these?

A: Exactly. Those were his wishes.

B: He wanted me to treasure his junk? For how long? Until the second coming? Until the dead rise again?

(Pause)

B: Let me tell you about my wishes, since he never once considered them. I want to be left alone, away from his memory and his legacy.

A: But, there’s not option here. This is what I’m trying to convey to you.

B: Well, there’s always a time capsule. Since when did those go out of fashion? Put the urn in there too. He can look care for his own posterity.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

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[for Jason Sowell]


I don’t right know why you’ve come around here, son. There’s nothing for you here, nothing for nobody; not even for me.

Sure, I could tell you some messy tales. Look around: everything’s a mess. Every story’s a tangle right now.

So, is that really what you need? Is that what you showed up on my stoop to gather; globs of flesh with which to craft yourself a future?

Pah!

Just look around and let your mind fill in the gaps then. You don’t need me to lay the truth out for you. Katrina did that for you, for all of us, baby.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

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[for Ana Briancesco]


It’s true, too. She helped load in the sound system. Eva was young and tiny, but being enviably petite didn’t mean she wasn’t mighty muscular. She and a couple of guys showed up at the right place and the right time to do more than watch history and trash culture intersect. By carrying a few pieces of equipment, she filed away the first of her legends (obviously, a personal favorite of many of her idealistic followers.) To say Eva Vroome planted the seeds of punk rock might be an overstatement, but it makes for a snazzy quote for any interview.

“I heard she never missed a gig during the first two years. She was right there as CBGB’s was busting it out, for reals.”

When one of her followers brought up the Ramones, she would tilt her head down and grin like a Cheshire, her silver locks casting shadows over her eyes.

“I mean, a show is a show is a bloody show no matter… But, why couldn’t I have been in the crowd with Eva Vroome, just one of those nights? Come on!”

Ms. Vroome changes the subject now that good people are dead, good people need homes and good people have their business establishments evicted out from under them. She’ll just give an exaggerated sigh and talk about the storm a’ coming.

“Sure thing, Ms. Vroome. I’ll just put some music on, okay?”

The studio apartment is crammed with followers/friends/people, but the sound of Social Distortion covering June Carter Cash takes Eva to a private island planet still growing her own fading memories. She unlocks the kitchen window and pulls it open as the rains come down, the silver clouds casting shadows over her discomfort.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

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[for Dan Khoury]


1: Is “Tom Strong” here yet?

2: Oh yeah, man. Number thirty-six came out this week and it totally bummed me out. End of an era.

1: You snag a copy for me?

2: You know it.

1: Yeah, let me pick that up and see what else has been lingering in my box.

2: Yeah, you might want to check out your sub list while you’re at it. Only thing I saw that was still coming out or hasn’t been cancelled yet is the next “League” graphic novel.

1: “Tomorrow Stories” came out too?

2: Yeah, it’s another wind-up. Not all written by Alan, so, you know, you end up skimming through half the thing and staring at the pretty Arthur Adams pictures.

1: They are pretty.

2: But, nothing tops “Promethea” and that crazy ending. That was mind-numbing.

1: Dude, I still haven’t stopped reading that issue. I took it apart at the staples and everything.

2: Yeah, I laid down for the full poster edition. Best thing I bought all year.

1: Wish I had your discount.

2: You don’t need it. There’s like two monthlies left on your list. You barely read anything anymore.

1: Yeah… Sucks that he’s finished.

2: Yeah, well there’s “V” opening this weekend. That should be chill.

1: Shhh! He’ll hear you. He’s magic.

2: So I hear.

1: Well, here’s my dramatically Alan Moore-less sub list.

2: You’re not ordering “League?”

1: Already read it at Borders. It was just alright, you know. No where near as good as the first two.

2: It’s not out yet, man. I don’t think it’s even been officially solicited yet!

1: Dude, I read the book two weeks ago.

2: That’s impossible.

1: Maybe, they get advanced copies or something.

2: Maybe, you are full of crapola.

1: You’re just jealous. I’m obviously a bigger Alan Moore fan than you.

2: So, what did you think of how he ended “Supreme?”

1: It was satisfying.

2: You are such a liar. Just man-up and order a copy. Alan will know if you don’t.

1: He’s magic.

###

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[for Dev]


On the day I gave my heart away, the couple sitting at the table beside us ended their relationship with the force of an atom bomb.

We wouldn’t have paid any attention if we could have avoided it; for the keeper of my heart, with her deep green eyes, had matched my declaration with her own.

But, the table’s at our favorite Sunday eatery were placed so closely together that there was nary an inch in between; making strangers into neighbors and privacy all too public.

As I turned my words toward the desire of my life, this woman sitting across from me sipping her chai, the man to my right spilled his every complaint (and her every infraction) onto his future ex-wife.

The girl of my dreams grabbed my hand and squeezed it with a smile, then raised two soft fingers into the air for the waiter to bring our check.

We left a generous tip then started for the door as the belittled woman called everyone’s attention to the impotency and infidelity of her future ex-husband.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

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[for Brooke Daye]


When Eva throws a punch, the whole world pays attention. She's rarely at such odds with somebody, anybody so as to get, you know, violent. But, they grew up together; Eva and her adversary. They were two peas in a pod.

"Two peas in a placenta."

Yeah, that's right. The genes, you know, they were the same.

"The a-r-e the same."

As I was saying: These two, Eva and...what was her name again?

"Marcia. Do you want m-e to tell play newsie?"

No, I'm fine.

"You sure you can handle it?"

I said I got it.

"So, let's get on with the dancing."

Like, like I was saying; I was talking about sibling rivalry and how the closer you get the more you see each other as a dirty mirror. But see, but see, it all gets spun like a top and way more complicated when you're like Ms. Vroome and, and the other Ms. Vroome.

"Eva and Marcia."

I said that.

"And, actually, Marcia was married a while back..."

Really? I did not know that.

"Yeah and she kept her married name after the 'accident.'"

Oh...I don't want to know. Moving on.

"Good idea."

So, Eva and Marcia ran into each other in Wyoming last summer. Eva led her posse to farm that needed some help. Dad was sick, couldn't take care of the place. Wife with 4 small kids. You know the deal.

"It was a friggin' mess."

That's right. It was a mess. On top of that, or maybe propping up the problem (depending on which way you look at it), a fire had broken out at a barn nearby and just laid waste to most of the structure of the place.

"So, Eva is with a few crew mending fences..."

And there is Marcia, just standing there holding her side-sack. No explanation for why she's there: nothing. People are doing double-takes. If it wasn't for their drastically different tastes in hair and clothing, you could never tell them apart. And, Marcia, she just walks right up to Eva and says, "I'm sorry, baby."

"I'm so sorry."

You can see Eva's fists clench. But, we still don't see it coming, we still don't get it. I mean, we hear Eva say, "I already forgave you."

"I'll forgive you as many times as you want, too."

That's right. But, immediately after, right away, in sync with her last exhale of her last word: Pow!

"Zap! Bam! Boom!"

Now, that's some serious dysfunction. That is what you would call, like, resentment.

"Seriously."

So, it was like, back to work for us. Like, whistle while you work man and forget about the whole thing.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

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[for Shaney]


A: Are you enjoying your pudding? I really did ask for chocolate; but, the kitchen makes what it makes.

B: Eh...I've had better. One summer, when I was sailing off the coast of Turkey, the prince brought out a tray of marinated baby oysters.

A: I'm not sure I could stomach those.

B: Oh, no; we didn't eat them. We were too bubbly from the evening breeze and the reds and whites. The prince was given a veritable winery for our adventure.

A: Given by whom?

B: Each bottle was from the queen, of course.

A: Of course.

B: She tried to ruin me.

A: Of course.

B: Please, display some manners and take this tray from me. I'm finished.

A: Whatever you say.

B: It's a glorious day.

A: I suppose it would be.

B: Can you feel the earth beneath your toes?

A: Well, I can't say that I've had that pleasure today. I've been busy spending time with you and your friends. We've been having some wonderful discussions today, haven't we?

B: I have no friends! Original Goddess Ruler has no friends.

A: Yes, well. Why don't you tell me more about that sailing trip in the Mediterranean.

B: No friends. No friends, because know one can touch what I have touched.

A: I'm sure the prince was special.

B: They lie! They try...

A: They try to..."what?" What is it they try to do?

B: You try to ruin me; but, Original Goddess Ruler can not be fooled. I will melt into the earth and slide beside the worms under your toes. For your toes can not catch me!

A: John, I'm losing her.

B: You can not catch she who was never born. Original Goddess Ruler will seep into the molten core of the earth. For I was created! I was made.

A: I promise, I will try my best, to bring you chocolate tomorrow. I promise.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

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[for Greggo]


A life without the Text is a life void of understanding. Such is my life.

With no means or understanding, with no time to learn, I keep kicking the can down the ally of cool. From above, looking down from a plane or telescoping downward from outer space, anyone can place a bet on this ant. Seems I'm just another ant racing through a maze of blades, surrounded by green.

God, let me win. Rip up my marker and front me some more language. I have too many numbers to kill and I'm running out of ammo.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

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[for Garrett Smiley]


No, you'll listen for a second and you'll like it and you'll thank me afterward for bringing this news to your attention.

Thank you.

Hold on, I'd like to frame this in such a way, you won't be able to avoid the feelings you deserve to encounter.

You see, honey darling, I've found you out. I said, I've found you out; I know more than I want to know about the deep, the deep and dark and depressing pockets of your overcoat.

Baby, you tell me; explain where I should start when it comes to the truth and you. Is our relationship in another dimension, facing the truth but never touching it for more than a second?

May I have a minute? I'd like you to wait for the bang to blow, anyway. Have a drink and let this all sink in that big, beautiful head of yours.

Darling, today I found the truth in the glory of your laundry. I serve you everyday and I make you feel alive; you know better than... I found these dice in the pocket of your coat; the very pocket I stitched for you just last fall.

What are these? Positions; are these the things we're supposed to do together (because if not us, than who and you...) and if so, I'm having a hard time holding back my laughter? What? In between my propping up your ego and your treating me like a dog?

You devilishly handsome man, you drink up and I do hope you'll catch some of the truth we've been missing. Then, when you're good and drunk, we're going to have that overnight talk to which we've never given ourselves; and don't you be telling me these are for work!

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

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[for Kevin Govin]


She's speeding. But, they're all speeding; so, she doesn't stand out. Well, that's a lie. How could this woman blend in? It's obvious to anyone with eyes to see, everyone can tell she's the leader of the pack. Not, that this pack..."fits." It's such an oddball arcade of types and ages. For sure though, she is w-a-y older than any of them. She's a grandma. Well, she's not a grandpa, not a real grandma. No real grandma would ride wish such fierce abandon.

"Eva? Eva's a goddess. She...opened my eyes."

Her helmet and goggles, jacket and boots hide her years. But, maybe her age doesn't need to be obscured. At every stop, she's seems stronger, more sure of herself and her mission. She stays up and maps out the next days travels as everyone else rests or says their goodbyes. No one sticks around too long. Some people join in for a day or two, pull out some inspiration and take it back as a souvenir. Eva says that's how it should be.

"Oh, Eva's not like a hog like that. I don't know... Friends? No... she's too chill to have friends. Friends would. Friends would slow. Well, if I was her friend, I know I would slow her down. I can barely keep up and I'm pulling up the rear."

Tonight, Eva's sitting with her youngest acolyte. She and Marty are drinking Typhoo at 3:33 a.m. He's exhausted, but a few words with Eva are worth any morning migraine. Marty's the youngest but still an envied elder of the group. He's been following Ms. Vroome for eight weeks now. The map's laid out before them. Blue highlighter points East with red sharpie due north. Eva draws a tiny smiley face in the top corner. Marty gives it devil horns and a goatee. They both laugh. Eva pats his hand gently and tells him to get lost.

"But, I don't know; how can I know where to go. Please, don't make me leave. This I can do! I can follow you. It's the one thing; it's the only thing I know how to do."


Gas up, take this map and look around! (She tells him all of this, then takes a deep sip of her tea.) Find something else to live for Marty. You do not want to follow me to the end of the road. The world is flat! Haven't you heard? (He laughs and lets out a few tears.) Drive away. That's what I'm going to do, after all; what I've been doing all along. It's the only thing I know how to do.


"Oh, y-e-a-h. Eva kicked Marty out. Told him to stick it and cut out. I heard he's been screwing around with her bike. Yeah, man. I got the inside track on that. She was pissed. I saw him crying, man. Seriously, I ran into him this morning and you could see, like, the tear stains around his...yeah, it was hilarious. She must have kicked his eyes open. Sorry suckup loser."

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

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[for Gwen (and Mia) Givens]


1: I'll take two of those...and...one, no, make that three of the blue model.

2: Uh, that'll be $24.62. Cash or credit?

1: Cash. Wait? How much?

2: Twenty-four dollars and sixty-two cents.

1: Okay, but, if I only bought the first two...? How much would that cost me?

2: Well, let's see. Mmm...then, you're looking at $14.87.

1: Cool. Thanks.

2: So...that'll be $14.87, please.

1: Actually, let me get the others. I changed my mind.

2: Okay. We can make that happen.

(Pause)

2: $24.62. One more time.

1: Cool, thank you so much. Um, if I got...just one of the blue?

2: SevenFortyNine.

1: What's your refund policy?

2: 'S on the back of the receipt. Will you be making a purchase?

1: Yes, sure. Thanks for all your help. You really are a great help, you know that?

2: Well...I appreciate the compliment. However, I'd like to be help to the line standing behind you too...

1: Right, of course. They're really going to love your customer service skills.

2: Thanks.

1: I know I do.

2: Thank you.

(Pause)

1: Could I ask just one more question?

2: What would you like to know?

1: What was the grand total again? If I bought all of them, what's the damage?

2: Forget it. It's on me.

1: Pardon?

2: Look me in the eyes as I'm bagging these up. Take them in your hand and walk out the door.

1: Wow. I'm...stunned. Thank you.

2: NeverFrequentThisEstablishmentAgain.

(Pause)

1: My mom is going to love these! And you, your name is going on the card!

2: Why are you still standing here?

1: Is there a Hallmark in this mall?

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

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[for Wes Grimes]


The ruckus in Terminal G amounts to nothing more than hysterical overreaction. I listen to three women mud wrestle for position as Most Moving Complainant. Their rants range from moral indignation to a mother’s obligation to protect the innocent eyes of her babies (13 year-olds, they may be) to violent consternation at my reluctance to expel a couple of college kids from JFK for the sin of kissing each other goodbye.

I shrug the prudish persuasion from my shoulders and remind young Adam and Eve that a full and proper farewell – especially one that may result in a cesarean nine months from now – would best take place in a room with not a view, but a lock.

The scratch on my walkie-talkie is ordering me to the newsstand. Nothing threatening, just a co-worker’s need of this month’s Maxim.

“Excuse me, sir. I can get your help? I can proposition you?”

This man sweats excitedly and pushes his way between me and the cash register. I raise an eyebrow, put down the trashy magazine and tell him I’ll do my best to help if he’ll be quick.

“Oh, sure. Oh, sure. You’ll come with me?”

I tell him to calm down and I’ll follow him. He waves me into the broad hallway, then abruptly turns around, reaches into his bag and shoves a beat-up camera into my hands.

“You’ll take my photo? You’ll take her photo?”

I ask who “her” is and he pops his head several times in the direction of a dark-skinned woman slouching in her chair. The man taps the camera.

“Our photo. Our marriage photo.”

I scan the area in vain for a priest or a monk or someone. With a sigh, I nod and he skips around some chairs, people and carry-ons. I watch him wipe the sweat from his forehead and sit opposite this woman who seems lifeless with boredom.

The clunky camera’s weight reminds me of my responsibility and I shuffle closer to the scene. I watch it unfold in the viewfinder. The man touches her hands and she smiles. He speaks to her, his hands moving in pattern with his words. She’s watching the movement, studying his fingers until he dips one hand into his jacket and pulls out a burgandy box.

He must be whispering now, since I can’t hear a...Maybe he’s just mouthing the words. She seems a bit startled, but she’s barely reacting. The box clicks and her eyes fly open. The echo of her falling jaw is my cue to snap the flash of the camera. They squeeze each other and peck awkwardly. She’s wiping away some tears with her left hand; the right hand flying into action; now both hands expressing...I’m not sure what exactly. Her fingers speak secrets and dreams no camera can translate; so I walk to the strange, perspiring man and return his treasure.

“You are a good man, sir! Yes, yes, yes…”

I tip my hat and say something-er-another to the strange, happy couple. Back at the newsstand, I silently purchase my colleague’s depressant/relaxant. The rest of my shift flies by with neither a third emergency of love nor my need to speak another word.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Send me your criticism.
Purchase SONS & DAUGHTERS - An Ambient Fiction Album.
Continue this micro-fiction in my comments…

CANONIZING THE MEME OF YOU

My earliest memory is of my sister screaming for "that little brat" to stop. Stop banging the pots. Stop trying to whistle. Stop slamming the doors. Please, Denny. You must learn to shut the music from your soul. It's just sooo annoying. Please, just die already. At first I would cry. Then I would bite. I pushed, shoved and kicked until I learned how to flip her off. Sis told me the world's problems revolved around my personality. She said that if I wasn't so wrapped up in the sound of the wind blowing through a reed – she said that if I couldn't see past my own cock (seriously, she said this to me) – she goes, "How can you take care of Mom and Dad's things? Everything will fall apart. Leave it to me. I can take care of what needs taking care of."

This was an either/or. Here I am, seventeen and my elders are either sick and in a home or a selfish, dyke bitch…with no sense of style or taste, let me point out right now. Either/Or. It was time to run away. I packed my sack with the top five albums personally tracked down by yours truly while I was supposed to be in gym class and I headed for the door. On the kitchen table, at the edge just beyond the pizza boxes and left-over Chinese, there was a ratty shoebox wrapped with thick blue ribbon. I picked up the heavy box and carefully opened my going-away present. Inside, I found an index card and a couple dozen cassette tapes. Some were in cases, none the originals. Most were hand labeled. The handwriting was clearly my Mother's. I flipped over the index card and stared for a moment at my sister's scratch, "I told Dad of your plans. He said you would need these. Then he passed out again. Hope you find what is not here." I dumped the tapes into my sack and hit the bricks.


WANTED: OLD FRIEND W/ GOOD TASTE, INITIALS "K.M.R."
Contact "The Dirk Jenny Show" c/o Biltmore Media Waves


The Fat House had the perfect view. For years, I could imagine I was independent and flying solo; yet, I never had to give up the Hallow's Eve pleasure of trashing my sister's place – my parent's place, whatever. I was three blocks away and on another continent at the same time. There were eight of us sharing two rooms and a bath. Over the course of my stint, I watched 26 roommates come and go. But, there were always eight in residence at any given time. It never really mattered who or what moved in, because the sounds stayed the same. I controlled the music and the music controlled the mood. I was a benevolent DJ and, as the girls came in and out, my soundtracks got everyone laid. So, my portion of the rent was adjusted accordingly for "other services rendered."

But, all good things breed their nemesis and mine showed up while I was away on The Big Interview. Marty the Head came in loaded and he started lighting bills on fire, then tossing them into the pool. Here I am, out of town, at an actual, viable interview for an actual, viable job that I would be actually, viably perfect for and Fat Head's lighting up everything not stapled to the walls. The pyro came to my equipment and my collection and stopped short of burning the vinyl – not out of any reverence for the Human League or the boss, but rather 'cuz he realized they would just melt.

Then he saw the mix tapes. By this time, his retarded chick was down the stairs with a plastic baggie filled with M-80s. Together, they stumbled to the driveway and blew up some of the cassettes, jamming fireworks into the holes, two at a time, cracking the plastic and snapping off the spokes as if, as if it was the bloody crown of thorns snapping into our lord and savior's skullcap. Some of the tapes, Dick Head just unraveled completely, lighting the long, thin strip ablaze.

The day before I moved out and finally, really, truly left home, I asked chica retardo why they did it. She looked down and sat silent, seemingly embarrassed and even ashamed; but, I think that was on account of Bloated Marty's ripping off her top and burning it on the front lawn as she laid out, sprawled on the front lawn for all the neighbors to view. Marty told me I wouldn't ever need tapes for the show anyway, that the station would have CD's right? I cleaned up what was left of the sacrifice they made of my parents' favorite melodies and I regretted never listening to them.


"City and State?"
"Hialeah. Hialeah, Florida. I think that's right."
"…Name?"
"Um. Kimberly Marie Reese."
"No such listing."


Kim was the engineer of the Death Squad Hour; although, she reasonably hated all the crap they played. When the guy who was assigned to my show balked at my playlist (something I would come across regularly) I asked Kim if she wanted to run the board on a real show. She just gave me this cackle of a laugh that shockingly showed her age. Then she smacked my shoulder as if she just got the joke. I don't know. I wasn't making a joke.

We worked hand in hand for two decades with a couple missing years in the middle on account of an argument over the ration of songs to call-ins (she wanted more songs and call-ins; I just wanted more ME.) Kim proved black was beautiful, yet she hated the blues. So, I would call her Cracker and she would turn off my mic. Our relationship grew from 12-3 a.m. each night from local to national syndication. I became king and she my favored concubine.

There was this night where I was particularly "on," spreading my seed of sound and making converts effortlessly; I thought I would take Kim out for a Red Bull, but she had left at 5 after 3. She had left a CD behind (I believe by accident). The only thing printed on the label was "K.M.R." I took it with me and gave it a listen on the drive home. Her voice was bejeweled. The songs could've used some work, but her voice was just lovely. I switched the discs out after track 6 and slipped it into the case closest to me. I meant to bring it in with me, but the exhaustion had already kicked in and I forgot all about it as it slipped between the seat and the parking break. I figure she forgot it too since she never did mention its existence or its absence.

I wouldn't let her go. Kim told me in so many ways that she was moving south to care for "Momma" and that she could still run the show by satellite and phone. She said there was no need for us to fight over this; technology would make it work. Technology was our friend. I snapped at her, "Tautology doesn't exist! The truth is all a lie! How can it help? How could you think that? The only reason we even tolerate the idea of The Truth is because it sounds so good." She looked at me with scorn and whispered, "You're not even listening to me. You're going deaf, you must be going deaf. Listen to yourself, Denny! You don't wanna make this work? Fine. I can find another show and you can buy another ho."


>>>>Login Here
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>>>>Reese, Kevin
Shitty, shit, shit!


The retrospective was a terrible idea. I can't even remember who came up with it. They say I wanted to go out with a "glorious bang of light and send my career out on a wave of new music splashed with the craziness of yesterday." They say that's what I said. But, that doesn't sound like me at all. If there's anything I know, besides rock and roll, it's Dirk Jenny. I bet it was revolving engineer #66. Yeah, he probably devised this glorious gang bang as a way to make me look like a conceited blowhard (and make me work too). Remind me to make him cry.

So, I'm stuck spending precious hours downloading what purport themselves to be songs from this meandering webnet thingy. I'm not even sure if this is legal. Do the bands even know we can do this? But, I have no choice. I have to make this last show the strangest, most vivid 3 hours yet. It has to live on forever.

I abandoned my computer and turned back to my library – CD rack upon album rack of music only I can understand. I popped in maybe 3% by rote. No, that's crap. I played the songs just for the love of it. That's why. I was about to leave the plush listening booth I installed in the corner of my loft when I opened the case to U2's WAR and discovered a misplaced disc which I couldn't quite recognize. I placed it into the changer and slipped my on headphones.

When Kim hit the first note, I fell against the wall and slowly slid to the ground. This relic, this object of meaning made me melt. My last stab at musical evangelism was on account of Kimberly. I knew she was lost to me, just like everyone else. So, it was only appropriate that I chose to end my career on her final tones.

In my will (that letter of apology I gave my sturdy sister as my lungs began their last movements) I asked her to bequeath my collection, my library, the love of my life to "the children" – whoever they may be. But, Kim's disc… I asked my selfless caretaker of a sister to return it to its creator. I begged her to please, pretty please try to find Kim. Of course, I knew this request was impossible to fulfill. So, I left that last member (the best member) of my genetic clan a perfect way out. "Burn it. I don't care how. Set it free. Sacrifice the plastic. Make the memory of the songs live forever. Make them holy."

I knew big sis would not let me down. Wherever I am, it must be heaven. Because mixed in with the songs my mother and father loved to dance to, I hear the melodic stylings of one Ms. Kimberly Reese, a woman who knew the blues and despised them on account of her knowledge. They dance forever, my mother and father. Young and together, they sway in time to that voice I remember and I feel so lucky just to sit to the side and watch.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Happy End of the Year. See you in a few months time for more LYING LIVE.

[for John Bueno, Jr. who played G in POLAROID STORIES]


I can see you now. Tis true, I've always seen you. I've always been with you. But, now you can see me. Now. Everything is now. It's all happening. For real, this time...

No more misunderstanding. I've been so weary of all this...confusion. No time for misunderstanding; it's time for more, much more mystery. Mystery which draws you in and lets you know there's something to what all my messengers have been saying along. I've been moving towards you...forever. Now, I'll be moving among you.

Forever, I've been breathing. Now, to take my first breath.

There's nothing like life, really. Time to live like you. One day, you'll live like me. I am. I cause to be. Here I come...

Yeah, I know. The nonsense will continue. The story doesn't end here. But, here's where the story becomes...real. It's all happening. Now, for romance. Now, for truth. Now, for beauty. Now, for love!

Honestly, I've been waiting for this moment...since volume one, chapter one, page one, paragraph one. Time for you to see the real me, up close. Time for me to find you. There's no time like the present.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Part 10 (of 10) or Part 1 (of 10) of a New LL Experiment.

[for Curtis Belz who played SKINHEADboy in POLAROID STORIES]


Rough me up, will you? You pig. I'm not moving...

This bench is far too comfy. What with the streetlamp and my newspaper, this corner is my office. Yeah, that's right. I survey my home office. I can read last week's extras about the unemployment rate droppin' then cover my face with all the history of the metro section and drift away on my five-foot steel raft. Yeah...

You can't make me move. I'm happy here. I'm beer, I'm here and I'm proud. So, deal with it...buddy. Don't you have some donuts to eat?

Heh. Yeah...I'm serious. You got a donut for me? You got some bread, a roll? Can I have a steak and shrimp platter? Ha-HA!

Anybody got anything for me? Anyone have something for me? ...I'm here. Where am I supposed to go? Where's a kid to go to find some good will? Peace out, buddy. Go mess with some other kid. We're all around.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Part 9 (of 10) or Part 2 (of 10) of a New LL Experiment.

[for Dina Alcin who played Echo in POLAROID STORIES]


I'm expected to carry out orders like these? You gotta be kidding me.

The pay ain't enough to bury my grief that far under. I know, I know. Swallow it up, chief. What do you know anyway? Follow orders and let the thinkers be bright. There's always a reason. There's gotta be a reason. No one in their right mind would pull something so brutal, so ever-loving drastic without concrete intelligence.

Right.

Wish I could wake up from this nightmare and take my boy fishing. Instead, there's just one building left. One building to scale. One last house to raid. It's more like a shed...but, this is the last one on my list.

Now, to hold down my vomit one last time. Never thought I'd be doing this for a living...thought I'd be an astronaut or something. Lock and load and...

Yeah.

I don't believe my eyes. It's the chalk-up...to a tee. This is the place. I'm gonna get a medal. I'm gonna go to hell. Lock and load and...

Wait out here. That baby's crying in there. He...she...it sounds like my boy did. Sounds like a new world breaking through.

Never.

I'll let them lock me away before I go in that house...for this load. Before I let anyone else storm in either.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Part 8 (of 10) or Part 3 (of 10) of a New LL Experiment.

[for Christopher Dominic who played Narcissus in POLAROID STORIES]


Bitter? I'm not bitter. Now is not the time to feel bitter.

Sure, they won't see it that way. They'll say I'm control-lusty...when everything I'm doing is for their own good. They wanted provision; I gave them prosperity. They asked for freedom; I tore down the borders. They...these people...they want security; I will keep them safe from myths, fables and nonsense masquerading as utopia.

This isn't personal. If there ever was a time for reasonable leadership, it's now...it's tonight. And, when I am presented with a threat like this...a terrorist threat, a family willing to turn our fair society upside-down...I respond with all the logic, providence and strength my citizens surely deserve. Crime does not pay. Is there any higher crime than treason?

Let me carve this point sharply: the birth of a new god, old wives' tale or postmodern fairy saga (whichever the case may be) will never change the way I or my citizens will choose to live. This terrorist can not win. You may call me bitter, but words are empty. Once again I'll remind you, my cautionary directives are for your own good, our own good.

Don't throw a word like that at me. What can a word do anyway?

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Part 7 (of 10) or Part 4 (of 10) of a New LL Experiment.

[for Jessica Baxter who played NEONgirl in POLAROID STORIES]


How is there a light like that in a room like this? I don’t know how I’m going to explain it or even describe it. My camera might catch it; probably not.

This soft brightness is propelling me. I could fly with this little yarn stringing behind, if I could graduate flight school.

I could sing this strange tale, if I wasn’t shy. Not that I’m shy, like gun shy or cowardly-lion shy; I wouldn’t be here to begin with if I couldn’t share the wonder clearly with whoever’ll listen.

But, look at them. How am I going to make anyone understand what it feels like to be 10-feet away from…I’m not yet sure what I’m this close to, but I’m close to something.

I’ve never been near a crime scene like this before. How can this be a crime? I don’t know.

I could hang my career on the wall for good—and gather good-natured reviews, if I could just paint a picture of this insignificant, ubiquitous birth.

That’s all it is, right? A birth, yeah. Yeah, I can start with that and find the juicy kicker by deadline. Yeah, I’ll tell everyone all I can with as few words as possible…in spite of myself, never mind the growing doubt. There’s this…light in this room. It’s getting brighter. It’s growing brighter too.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Part 6 (of 10) or Part 5 (of 10) of a New LL Experiment.

[for Stacy Rodriguez playing Philomel in POLAROID STORIES]


It’s too stinkin’ cold in here. How does anyone expect me to think when it’s this frigid? How is that young lady supposed to bump a calf in weather like this, as if nobody cared? How am I supposed to keep track of it all?

I think I would have settled for attending the baby shower. Being in the room? Honor schmonor.

But, there has to be some perks to being a godparent, sure; there has to be… Oh, bingo, yeah! The perks start with having god in your title. Plus, I can be a parent and go home at night without tucking anyone it…yeah. Yeah. Right.

What? Oh, what does this joker want? What? I’m supposed to hold her leg up? Come now, I did not agree to that—

Holy mother of god, he’s a coming, he’s a coming. Uh-huh, sure doc, whatever you say. Just…just wrap that child up before he catches some cold or something.

I always thought miracles were penny ante. Oh you better watch it or you’re gonna be the slimiest godparent ever, evah.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Part 5 (of 10) or Part 6 (of 10) of a New LL Experiment.

[for Mike Smith playing Orpheus in POLAROID STORIES]


You know, it’s all going to happen very quickly. I can’t let myself think about 72 hours on my feet… Stop thinking about that. Pay attention, attention to detail like you were taught.

I can tell they’re in love. Love, for me, is like changing diapers. But, these two…they’re living it up. She’s in agony—yes. He’s confused as hell—absatively. But, the only person who could tear these two apart (what with their hands so interlocked they may as well still be procreating), ah, the only thing would be this kid—when he finally sprouts, that is…he’ll get all the attention.

And rightfully so. So I’m told.

I’m also told this whole building is out of Red Bull. I’m also told that my knees are buckling. Stay awake! You’ve done this 5,384 times. Make this one count.

Here we go. Here. We. Go. Push. Excellent. There you are, little buddy. Ah, she’s doing great; she’s gonna do just fine. Puuush. She’s a champ. And…I got you little buddy. I got you. I…got you.

Perfect, perfection. Ah, I’ll never get to sleep tonight.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Part 4 (of 10) or Part 7 (of 10) of a New LL Experiment.

[for Dahlia Legault playing Persephone in POLAROID STORIES]


Stiff upper lip, man. Stiff. Upper lip. Make her laugh or something, come on—don’t just stand here. You can’t let her experience this alone! She’s not alone, I’m here. So, get in the game already! We’re all here. We’ll all be here soon enough.

Oh, god. She’s got a grip. Alright. Hang tight, man. This has gotta be as surreal for her as it is for you, right?

I never expected things to happen like this, all outta order, all outta whack. But, this could work. You can be husband/dad or dad/husband. You can fix this. Or, maybe there’s nothing to fix. Maybe she’s not full of crap. Maybe you’re not a pushover.

Dad was good to me. Granddad was good to him. I can be good to this little guy—Oh, god. He’s pushing out. His head! She has got to see this. I can’t believe I’m seeing this.

Right, that’s right. I’m here and I can’t leave; I don’t want to leave. I have to see this kid. We’ll be good to him too. Maybe, 50 years out, when we’re collecting Social Security and she’s still as sexy as the day I met her, maybe then, he’ll return the favor.

I’m no pushover. Look at him! He could be my son…

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Part 3 (of 10) or Part 8 (of 10) of a New LL Experiment.

[for Amber C. Snider playing Eurydice in POLAROID STORIES]


He's holding my hand, my man, my man. I can't believe he's holding my hand. But, it doesn't matter if I believe it or not. He's so gentle, and I'm just crushing his. I know it. I don't know my own strength. Yet, I'm still too weak to get this whole thing over with quickly.

That man over there has been telling me to push for eons and my man, with his sweet, kind hands has stood beside with a dumb look on his face. He keeps saying how I'm beautiful, I'm beautiful, over and over. He's beautiful; beautiful and dumb. With all this sweat and smell on me, I'm sure I'm anything but... But he loves me, I think. And he'll love my baby, I think.

I shut my eyes so tight and I feel lost and levitating, out at sea when he does finally pull his hand from my grip. That noise, my baby's song - in harmony with my own cries over these eons - it brings me back around and to. I can feel my man's hands propping me up and holding my back for me to see. Everything aches and everything, everyone beams.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Part 2 (of 10) or Part 9 (of 10) of a New LL Experiment.

[for Raphael Quinones, Jr. playing D (dionysus) in POLAROID STORIES]


I’m scared. I don’t think I should be scared; but, this is what it feels like, right? Being…scared? It’s me being squeezed out of this soft, warm bed of safety and into the cold chill of night. I feel scared.

It’s all happening so slowly. Will everything take this long? Will I feel scared for long?

There’s the squeeze again. It’s all happening. I’m pushing her open, but it’s not me – it’s her doing all the heaving lifting – but, it is still me. Here. Feeling scared and feeling my feet kick on the way out. And feeling…I’m feeling the long journey through her portal.

I feel excited and hopeful, and, and energetic. I can feel the words inside me; part of me (all of me?) wants to sing them out. How long till I can?

My head feels cold and my face, my eyes – ouch – my nose, my mouth are free and… Now, yes, now the energy and the pressure are taking over and this state of being revels in being scared and so I let it all out…in the only way I am able. I let out a shriek and a cry. I whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa… It’s all happening.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Part 1 (of 10) or Part 10 (of 10) of a New LL Experiment.

[for Batthius Manning]


1: You realize they'll never pass this thing.

2: That's crazy talk. With all the effort we've put into the campaign? It'll pass in a landslide.

1: I just don't think we can overcome the inertia, that's all. There's just too much cynicism for actual action to occur.

2: You got anything to drink?

1: Mmm. Yeah. I think we've got some soda. Maybe some orange juice.

2: That sounds good. Can I have the juice?

1: Help yourself. I think you're too optimistic.

2: We have all the reason in the world to believe. Reason is on our side. We've laid out the reasons as clear as, as clear as this drinking glass.

1: All I'm saying is 2/3 majority. Two-thirds majority doesn't seriously take reason into the equation.

2: You want something?

1: No, I'm good.

2: Let me ask you this, and after you answer, then you can call me an optimist or a pessimist or a fool, I don't care, okay?

1: Bring it on.

2: If everything in your life turned out like the pre-washed backend of a Democratic mascot and someone offered you a one-time-only, golden ticket, guaranteeed, no-pain-no-gain escape hatch with the only requested compensation being your simple affirmative decision – let's say this was the case…in your own life now – inertia or momentum, who cares...what would you say to the chance to wipe the slate clean and start again?

1: I'd say "yes." I'd say get me out yesterday.

2: And on a grander scale, you would vote to succeed.

1: No. Okay, I would. Sure. But, we...as a state...we would not vote to succeed.

2: Why is that?

1: People never vote the way they live.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Day 2 (of 2) of a Special LL Experiment / Part 8 (of 8) or 1 (of 8)

[for Naomi]


HOST: Alright, we have…John from Sussex. You're on the air.

CALLER: Okay, I normally agree with you, most of the time. Most of the time we're on the same page. But, I can't believe the things you're saying today.

HOST: So, can I take it that you do not, at present, agree with me?

CALLER: You're out of your mind if you think succession will change a single thing. What? Are we gonna magically have a state budget transfusion? You think people are gonna flock to a non-union state which will probably face a war for sovereignty at the get-go, on top of whatever—whatever happens next, we'll still be broke, depleted–

HOST: John, John, John…calm down, John. Listen to me and listen to some reason.

CALLER: I just can't understand—

HOST: So, then let me help you understand. Not only can we take back our state and put things right, by ourselves, now – by ourselves, we can become a more vibrant and winsome state than we have ever been...and we'll no longer be carrying around the chains of federal bondage.

CALLER: That's wishful thinking.

HOST: John, let me send you a copy of my book – LOGICAL THREATS – now in paperback. Read it a few times and you'll come around.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Day 2 (of 2) of a Special LL Experiment / Part 7 (of 8) or 2 (of 8)

[for Sabine Balshazzar]


PICTURE: A desert. One dying cactus. Tumbleweed.

VOICE: The deadwood federals believe this is the best our state has to look forward to. They're willing to let our state continue to suffer at the hands of politicians who would take advantage of our natural resources.

PICTURE: A tree-lined street. A well-kept neighborhood. Energy. Commerce.

VOICE: But, your life doesn't have to end that way. Vote "Yes" on Referendum 3232 and create a new future for your state.

PICTURE: A tech-savvy schoolhouse. Students reading, typing studiously. All smiles.

VOICE: Why tie our dreams to a sinking ship?

PICTURE: An open park. Birds. Squirrels. The young playing with the old. A couple – smiling and strong – turn to the camera and speak together, with conviction.

VOICE: "We said 'Yes' to a new beginning. We voted 'Yes' on Referendum 3232."

PICTURE: The state flag, flying proudly.

VOICE: Paid for by TheTrueBeleiversInANewBeginningCoalitionPAC.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Day 2 (of 2) of a Special LL Experiment / Part 6 (of 8) or 3 (of 8)

[for Caity Abadene-Manning]


This teacher drones on, long after his students flip the switch to their attention. Yet, here he goes, turning the powerpoint slide to the next and talking, still talking, "…of course, voting to succeed is a difficult decision. But, the ramifications of passing this referendum are not nearly as dire as the pundits predict. First of all, just because the only occasion such an action has been taken happened to result in a brutal war between brothers does not, in and of itself, mean that will be the case this time around. Change can and does occur. History does not always repeat itself."

Rolling three pieces of chalk in the palm of his hand, he walks up and down the steps of the auditorium. "There was a reason succession failed, after all. They left for the wrong reasons. I ask you, you bright minds of mush who I hope and imagine have been following recent events as closely as you should; are these not perfectly valid and honorable reasons to sever the hastily-made ties of federal union and stop the bleeding?"

By now, he he's back at the front of the room. With full knowledge of his dwindling audience, he slams his hands down upon his desk, crushing the chalk into dust and reflexively cringing at the pain in his right hand. A classroom of wide eyes wakes up.

"There is a reason the succession option was written into our constitution! Today, that reason has been made manifest. It's not an option any of us want to take lightly. But, it is the only appropriate option available to us." With this, he pulls out his chair and sits.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Day 2 (of 2) of a Special LL Experiment / Part 5 (of 8) or 4 (of 8)

[for Jason Procopio]


JOURNALIST: You've put forth a compelling argument for re-framing the succession discussion.

INTERVIEWEE: Well, the argument is on the wrong page altogether.

J: Describe what you mean.

I: Well, it's not an either/or is it? I mean, does the citizenry honestly buy into the belief that we can fix all that has been broken by renaming ourselves and pretending we're a different country? Are all these problems going to be resolved by governing ourselves?

J: Isn't that the spirit of democracy?

I: Hold on, hold on okay? I'm not finished answering your question. See, that's part of the problem right there. Why are we so rash? Why are we so quick to pull out? We only ratified our state's entry a few years ago. Let me tell you why. Here's why. It can all be explained by a lack of faith.

J: Is this really a religious matter?

I: No, faith in democracy. Democracy is living, it's breathing. There's not "this" or "that," "old" or "new," "right" or "left." It's a pool of all of us pushing our ideas up against conflicting ideas in a very unsynchronized swim. None of them are left the same after their intermingling. It's a pool, it's a river.

J: You're losing me here.

I: Democracy is a pull, a pulling together of ideas, good and bad and in between. It's not a matter of succession. This is a battle over how quickly we're apt to give up our freedom!

J: And you believe succession negates our freedom?

I: Succession is our tearing away. It's not only about us leaving the other states... We were only too willing to send our sons and daughters into combat to fight for those other states; but, now we're willing to leave them? But, it's not about that really. It's about changing who we are and what we believe in. That is something we should not accept.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Day 1 (of 2) of a Special LL Experiment / Part 4 (of 8) or 5 (of 8)

[for Marion Greene]


MODERATOR: Senator Smith, this question is yours and it comes to us from a Ms. Barbara Wally from New Park Pavilion. She asks, "How does your stance on the succession referendum protect the state's best interests in light of the federal government's fiscal mishandling?

SMITH: What a perceptive question. Thank you Barbara for you question and for your very participation in this town hall discussion, this debate, indeed, this grand display of good ol' fashioned democracy. I believe in the need to protect our state. But, and I'm sure, um, I am sure you would agree that if we protect our nation, we protect our state. These are not mutually exclusive agendas.

MODERATOR: Citizen Jones? Your rebuttal.

JONES: With all due respect to the senator and his friends in Congress who, dare I say, are responsible for the budget collapse and the siphoning of our state's treasure...I would expect nothing less than his placating the status quot. Sometimes, doing the courageous thing means leaving.

SMITH: But, most of the time, sir, it means holding on to your obligations and giving them time to work!

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Day 1 (of 2) of a Special LL Experiment / Part 3 (of 8) or 6 (of 8)

[for Garrett Soucy]


Subject: STUDENT ACTION LEAGUE needs You!!!
>>>Are you 18? Do you have parents? Do you know anyone at all?
>Then we need you! Your state needs you! You need your state!
>>>
>>>Fight the abandonment movement!
>Vote "NO" on Referendum 3232!
>>>
>>>
>>>Keep our progress moving forward and don't let them redefine
>the freedoms you have! There is still time to make your voice
>heard! Vote! Get your friends and family to vote! We need
>registrars! We need passionate speakers and street team leaders!
>Spread the truth about succession!
>>>
>>>
>>>Respond to this e-mail for connection points to sync up with.
>>>What they don't want you to know...
>Leaving the union will NOT stop the corruption that's been siphoning
>from our schools and utilities! Our state economy will falter!
>Civil rights will be set back decades!
>>>
>>>
>>>Do not let your disgust for the past mistakes of our nation
>hurt this great state you call home! This is still our nation!

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Day 1 (of 2) of a Special LL Experiment / Part 2 (of 8) or 7 (of 8)

[for Melissa Love]


From the small, make-shift stage, you can hear the shouts in violent unison, "Hold the state! Hold the state! Hold the state! Hold the state!"

A skinny, 30 year-old woman in a khaki pant-suit grabs the microphone off the podium and listens as the shouts bounce above the placards and hand-written signs. The microphone squeals its introduction and she screams, "I am here to remind you of one thing. I am here to remind you of unity!"

A roar shakes the tiny auditorium that used to be an airplane hangar.

"Unity brings strength in the face of those who wish us be gone! Unity brings power that make our state the catalyst for revolution throughout the nation! Unity brings hope! And, yes, unity ushers in the future!"

Her fist punches through the air, prodding the chorus to reprise, "Hold the state! Hold the state! Hold the state!."

She takes a deep breath before turning to someone stage left and shouting some camera directions with the mic hanging at her side. She walks to the edge of the stage and looks over the crowd. She lifts the microphone to her lips and whispers, "The bigots are trying to rip our unity apart. They've concocted a plan so devious and a conspiracy so effective as to use our virtue, our ideals against us. Our society is not at the mercy of their corruption! Is it?"

"No!"

"They lie. Our future, our future progress does not, it cannot exist away from the nation as a whole. We can change a nation, so long as we are part of it."

Here, a tear (or maybe it's a bead of sweat) inched down her cheek.

"But, to use the present crosses and double-crosses of the government as an excuse to tear us apart will kill off everything we've accomplished over the last 50 years."

She looks out at the signs, these messages of solidarity, holding out hope that the polls are wrong; even as her words ring hollow in her ears.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Day 1 (of 2) of a Special LL Experiment / Part 1 (of 8) or 8 (of 8)

[for Gibson Thorn]


The man in the Spider Jerusalem shades feels welcome in the parade of freaks. He enters the main hall and pauses to survey the tables and booths, the centipede line of middle-aged men and their tattooed girlfriends moving between them. He walks toward the Artist Alley and reads the featured guest list in the center of his photocopied program. Between the bios of a 60's television sensation and the obligatory midget, there is an underground cartoonist making his first convention appearance in 15 years (as he's releasing his first all-new-material, 30-page floppy in over a decade.) A line hasn't yet formed; but, the cartoonist sketches furiously, just for the hell of it.

The man in the Spider Jerusalem shades passes the booths of three skin stars, each signing $40 copies of old Playboys and new Maxims. He smiles to himself and keeps moving as he's on a schedule. Anime images blast around him as he enters the bootleg video section and runs into Marty, a kid he used to buy Batman comics from years ago. Marty slides him a DVD of the BBC's NEVERWHERE, then takes the man's twenty and stuffs it into the money box.

The man in the Spider Jerusalem shades walks beyond the exhibits and down a long corridor. He opens a door labeled "Custodian" and walks inside. He pulls off his shades, sets down his purchase and opens a puke-green locker. The man pulls out a blue jumpsuit and steps into it, one leg at a time. He loads his cleaning cart and clocks in. According to the program, two of his favorite writers (one a best-selling novelist) are speaking at the Marvel panel in an hour. He maps out his duties so as to be within earshot, as long as he can avoid the call of a major spill or overflowing toilet.

The man in the blue jump suit will take what he can get.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Send Me Your Criticism Or Continue the Micro-Fiction In My Comments

[for Jaime @ Deviant Art]


1: Hurry! We’re going to miss the previews.

2: Mighty handy that I fandangoed the tickets this afternoon, huh?

1: You’re a handy guy.

2: How about you find us a seat—

1: And you can get the popcorn.

2: And we’ll all live happily ever after.

1: They’re saying this is Claire Danes' big hit.

2: So I hear.

1: Did you read the book?

2: I flipped through your copy.

1: Holy no way! Whatever you do, don’t look now.

2: Don’t look where?

1: Over there! Don’t look!

2: Not looking, I’m not looking. What’s up?

1: What if I were to tell you that Bart was standing next to a Narnia poster and flirting with a gaggle of little girls?

2: I’d ask you to explain why he would not still be sitting in jail right now. Where is he?

1: Let’s just get inside and stick to the plan, okay?

2: He shouldn’t be here.

1: The movie’s going to start whether or not Bart's here. Come on.

2: Where did he go? I see the gaggle, but where did he go?

1: Maybe it was somebody else.

2: Someone who just looked like that freak?

1: A doppelganger? Maybe a twin?

2: Are they everywhere? How are we supposed to enjoy a night of comedic cinema with perverts and jerk offs surrounding us?

1: Well, first off, just because Steve Martin wrote it doesn’t make it a comedy.

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Send Me Your Criticism Or Continue the Micro-Fiction In My Comments

[for Loanne Procopio]


Next time I raise my hand, just shoot it off or something, okay? This isn't the first time I've gotten myself in a sticky situation, such as this never-ending pose. I need to quit volunteering all together. From now on, as art is my witness, I must be paid for every labor expended, no matter how much I say I love the work. Because, frankly, this is not the work I so love. When I said the museum could put me to work, I was thinking (and, yes, I may have been naive) how about one of the more interesting positions? Whatever happened to the important jobs, like moving the art in and out of exhibit? I could do that like a pro. And if I wanted to stand in place all the live long day, how about putting me in a blue suit, giving me an ear-piece and letting me guard some of the cool, controversial works?

I never, ever asked to become a work of art. It's sticky, it's hot and I swear I've had to scratch so many itches in oddly uncomfortable places that I...just want to...scream. At least I can whisper to you while we stand here. In this together like a band of brothers, right mate? Are you listening? Hello? Hey, are you wearing earplugs or something?

Psst! Hey, you, yeah, you. Look over here, at the suffering human statue. Come here and get this itch on my back, will ya'?

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Send Me Your Criticism Or Continue the Micro-Fiction In My Comments

[for Good Times]


COACH: How many Mexicans we got?

ASSISTANT: Well, sir, there's Pedro. The kicker. He was recruited last season.

C: Get me more. This is priority number one.

A: That might be difficult, sir. Our Hispanic population has dwindled since the border crackdown. There's just not that many players of Latin descent from which to choose.

C: And that's why this team blows chunks! You think I wanna lead a bunch of white chunk-blowers?

A: No, sir. I'm confident you do not wish to lead chunk-blowers.

C: No, I do not. We need more Mexicans.

A: Sir, aren't you a tad bit worried that the community will find your scouting campaign…a tad bit racist in tone?

C: They hired me. They can fire me. I am here to win. Are you? Racism, affirmative action, positive profiling; I wipe my boots at the door and I make the calls. I leave all those p.c. terms outside. You hear me?

A: Yes, sir. Terms out, Mexicans in.

C: You're a fast learner. You got some Mexican in you?

A: I'm Finnish, on both sides.

C: Eh. So, tell me about our field hockey team. What's our lesbian-to-straight ratio?

###

You are not alone,
J. Stephen Jorge

Send Me Your Criticism Or Continue the Micro-Fiction In My Comments