Belle Lettre

BELLE LETTRe

A word from S. Morgan, editor

“ENGAGE”

When spring arrives, I find myself in a constant state of goal setting. I resolve to get his ‘zine out on time, I resolve to expand my writing output and submit to more publications, I resolve to volunteer. I am committed to a few chosen political causes and resolve to do what I can to make my voice heard and my opinions known to those I feel can create the change I seek.

Spring also brings the desperate crying for good weather, for green grass, for the return of migrating birds, for a clean car to road trip in, and for Spring Break escapes.

I stand in the center of this blender of all things spring, in the eye of a whirling tornado of crocuses, fresh fruit, warm breezes, April rain, and spidery tendrils of new ivy. I carefully reach out and pluck a just-opened daffodil; planning my move with the utmost care to be sure I don’t fall upon the spinning blades, like the sharp disks that turn the soil and plow the furrows into which the seeds of possibility are sown.

Okay, so I guess the tornado is mixing up my metaphors as well…

Anyway, this would be the one year anniversary issue of Belle Lettre. Woo-hoo! So what does it all mean? I’m sure I don’t know, just like I don’t know why someone would want to nail fish heads to a telephone post. The cover photograph and the one above were taken in Dakota Minnesota, next to the Mississippi River. I did not nail the fish heads there, I don’t know who did. Is it art? Is it an altar to the fish gods? Is it a warning, a trophy display, the product of someone with nothing better to do?

New to this issue are recipes - yes, recipes! - from the Mad Cow Cookbook. This is the working title of a project I’ve been playing with for a while now. It has its roots in a trip my friend and I took to the British Isles in 1999, at the height of the Hoof and Mouth / Mad Cow hysteria. She and I made a pact not to eat any bangers, kidney pie, or other red meat containing foods. Seeing a pyre of burning sheep carcasses will turn you off to that sort of thing. We pretty much held to our promise, and it made me realize that there are a lot of people out there cutting red meat from their diets, either for ethical or health related reasons. Please let me know what you think at goatmaiden@uwalumni.com.

Special thanks to this issues contributors: DMV, Nicka.

MANGO BOY

He looked down at the bin of mangos and picked one up. I watched as he weighed it in his hand; it seemed nice and heavy. He looked at it; it was just the right shade of creamy yellow. He squeezed it; it was just firm enough. But then he looked down at the bin filled with hundreds of other mangos, and he set the first one down. He picked a second one up, it was too soft. He picked up a third, it was too green. And it went on like this for quite some time; one was too small, another too ripe. Finally, he went back to the first one, picked it up and put it in his basket.

Then I picked one up. I weighed it in my hand; it was nice and heavy. I looked at it; it was just the right shade of orange. I squeezed it; it was just soft enough. And I looked down at the bin of hundreds of other mangos and I realized I was happy with the first one I’d chosen. I put it in my basket.

The moral of this little observation was of course that I don’t have time to sit around squeezing mangos all day. I think Mango Boy enjoyed the thrill of the hunt.

THE SHELF - review

“Kitchen”

by Banana Yoshimoto

Book

I received “Kitchen” from a friend who encouraged me to pass it on when I was done.

“Here,” said Lily, with a quirky grin, “this is a strange little book. I don’t want it back.”

Hmm.

Intrigued, I took it from Madison, Wisconsin to Lakewood, Ohio and read it.

Hmm.

The book has uneven pages and a curious way of wanting to fold in half and jump into your pocket. It consists of two stories, one much longer than the other. I can’t say exactly what they were about; characters drift in and out like forest spirits in a Hayao Miyazaki cartoon. There were some sad things, some orange things, good food, um, dreams.

Anyway, it seemed like it was a book that would do well in the wild. If for no other reason than the fact that the author’s first name is “Banana” and there is a cute girl on the cover. As part of the social experiment of either spreading literacy (or litter) instigated by BookCrossing.com, I released it.

THE SHELF - review

“Dog Soldiers”

Movie

This is an only somewhat scary, but well-crafted, werewolf flick from England. The movie starts out with an extraneous murder at a campsite, and then switches to a helicopter dumping six army guys into the woods. The movie takes great pains to set the soldiers up as individuals so you really don’t know whose going to bite it next - in other words, none of them have the Star Trek “red shirt” syndrome. The soldiers soon find out that they’re not just playing war games after they find another group of soldiers – special ops – who’ve been attacked. After rescuing the only survivor, a baddie named Captain Ryan, the blood really starts to flow.

All the characters, including a lady zoologist, end up in a house in the woods trying to fight off unbeatable enemies. “Gritty” is a good way to describe this film, but plot holes and more than a few clichés make it difficult to fully embrace. The person I was watching it with figured out the “twist” way ahead of time. The DVD has a lot of extras, including a “making of” section, which will let you see the monsters up close. It was cool to hear the director’s vision – if only he had been able to completely achieve it.

THE SHELF - review

“Pudd’nhead Wilson”

By Mark Twain

Book

To keep her son from being “sold down the river,” Roxy, a woman 1/16 black, devises a way for her son to grow up with all the privileges of 1830s white society. But questions as to underlying nature of the boy, born Valet de Chambres and now called Tom, soon arise.

David “Pudd’nhead” Wilson is a well-educated man who found a place in Dawson’s Landing, Missouri, not as a small town attorney, but as the local curiosity. He earned his nickname and his reputation as a pudd’nhead due to his strange and frivolous hobby of fingerprinting his friends and neighbors, keeping the glass slides carefully labeled and filed.

The joining of Wilson’s eccentricities with a murder mystery concerning Tom comes late. To modern day readers, the way the murder is solved will not come as a surprise. Still, with forensic fingerprinting techniques traceable back to between 1850-80 it makes for an interesting enough piece of history, recorded with care and style by Twain.

The most amusing and enduring portions of the book are the random quotes taken from Wilson’s calendar. They include nuggets of wisdom such as “keep all your eggs in one basket… and watch that basket!”

As slim a volume as this book is, it takes a while to read. Roxy’s speech, written in Twain’s famous dialect spelling, can make you set aside a whole afternoon just to grope your way through. But if you find your lips moving don’t worry. Each word is important, and there is little in each short chapter that is not necessary and interesting.

I found Roxy to be the most compelling character. Her life in and out of slavery is one of a mother trying to do right, a woman trying to live her life, and an unfortunate pawn in the manipulative world that judges her only by her lineage.

THE SHELF - review

“Bloodsucking Freaks”

Movie

Though this classic of Z-grade late-night horror lives up to its reputation as one of the most repulsive films ever made, it’s not as entertaining as it may first sound. Master Sardu runs an underground theatre of the macabre, playing out horrendous acts of sadism on his naked, zombie-like actresses. But is it all an act? Of course not! Sardu and his midget companion are in the white slavery racket, sending brainwashed chicks around the world in giant shipping crates. Those he doesn’t sell he, or one of his lackeys, kills on stage (one example is the famous blond-getting-her-brains-sucked-out scene.) They also kill them for fun and keep some in a cage. The plot concerns Sardu’s attempt to get a real “artiste” to use in his show, and he latches on to a ballerina named Natasha. Her boyfriend Tom must then learn the gory details of Sardu’s show, and try to rescue her. But I’m sure most people watch it for the naked women and the badly performed acts of brutality, neither of which are really exciting or frightening. It could upset your stomach if you’re not ready for it. The guillotine scene was actually the most shocking - makes you wonder how messed up the person who made this movie was.

Be a brave Cook

I have always loved food. I haven’t always enjoyed the many steps it takes to make food. Eating is the easy part. To make your own home-cooked meal, you have to be brave.

1. The first step in accepting the challenge of making food that doesn’t come in a heat ‘n serve microwavable container is realizing that you will make mistakes. Some will be large. My sister went down in our family’s history as the one who couldn’t make instant pudding. In case you were not aware, instant pudding has three steps - add milk, mix and serve. Somewhere between steps 2 and 3, she added too much milk and a packet of gelatin, then set it on the stove to boil.

2. Realize that you may waste food. This was the hardest step for me to accept. Most of the time, buying and making your own meals will save money. But if you destroy a huge batch of bread or burn a few dozen cookies, it can make you wary of trying again for a while. Give yourself time to recuperate, realize that a bag of flour is less expensive than an extra value meal, and try again.

The best way to come to a Zen like acceptance of the fact that you’ve tried your best and failed is to attempt to eat a serving of whatever you messed up. I ruined a batch of rice pudding once by adding a handful of cranberries that curdled the milk. I only had to choke down a spoonful of the lumpy mess before tossing it. Sometimes, what you make doesn’t even get to the tasting stage, like the sourdough starter that oozed out of its plastic bag, out of the bread box and onto the not-too-clean floor. Scoop it up, write off the expense and throw it out.

3. Sometimes it is frustrating. When a cookbook, in black and white, tells you to turn the oven up to 425 degrees and bake for a half an hour, you may feel a bit betrayed when your sugar cookies come out looking like hockey pucks. Make a note in the margins of the recipe to “set temp at 350 and check after 10 minutes.” Then move on.

Just like a football game, accept the 24-hour rule. You can talk about the wilted overcooked stir fry you made, or revel in the perfect angelfood cake that will probably never be duplicated, but after a day, you’ll be hungry and it will be time to make breakfast again.

Recipe from the Mad Cow Cookbook Scalloped Eggs (good use for left over Easter Eggs)

8 T. (one stick) butter or margarine

3. C. breadcrumbs

8 hardboiled eggs, pealed and sliced

Salt and pepper

½ t. nutmeg

1 ½ C. milk

Preheat oven to 400. Melt butter in a microwave safe bowl. Mix in crumbs. Sprinkle ½ crumbs in a 9 or 10” pie plate. Spread eggs on top. Top with salt, pepper and half of the nutmeg. Pour milk over the top. Top with rest of breadcrumbs and rest of seasonings. Bake 25 minutes.

Recipe from the Mad Cow Cookbook Fish Stew

1 C. diagonally sliced carrots

½ C. sliced onion

½ t. dill

2 T. butter or margarine

1 can condensed cream of celery soup

½ can milk

1 lb. white fish cut into 2” pieces

Cooked rice

In a skillet, cook carrots and onion with dill and butter until just tender. Add soup, milk and fish. Simmer 10 minutes or until done. Stir occasionally. Thin stew with more milk if necessary. Serve over rice.

Recipe from the Mad Cow Cookbook Beer Bread

1 12 oz. can beer, room temperature

3 C. self-rising flour*

3 T. sugar

2 T. melted butter or margarine

(* to make one pound of self rising flour, mix 4 C. flour, 2 T. salt and 2 T. baking powder. Baking powder looses its “power,” so use soon. Can be stored in a tightly closed jar or can)

Preheat oven to 350. Grease 9”x4” loaf pan. Mix beer, flour and sugar. Pour into pan. Pour melted butter over top of batter. Bake for 1 hr. and serve immediately.

Beware Poet Crossing

Walking down the street.

Wearing heavy sandals, cheep.

I have had one Parliament cigarette,

I stole them from my friend on New Year’s Eve

When she made a resolution to quit

Which lasted exactly one and one half hour.

I walk in a straight line,

One foot in front of the other,

Like a tightrope walker,

Belly sucked in,

Pelvis angled up.

Neck extended, looking straight ahead.

I’m walking to my friend’s house to pick tomatoes

And give her and her boyfriend some pecan nut rolls

I bought them in Florida.

When I get to her house,

She’s not off playing tennis yet;

She’s in the basement doing laundry in her underwear.

She comes upstairs and listens

I ramble on about my trip to the Bahamas.

Her boyfriend waltzes in wearing an Atlantis resort tee shirt,

But he doesn’t even know where Paradise Island is.

Her cat winds in and out, crying every once in a while.

I get home, set up my encampment on the porch.

The neighbors across the street have rented movies.

“Two Mary Kate and Ashley, and MVP

About a monkey who plays baseball or something,” the mother says.

I can hear it blasting now from their living room window.

Six bikes go past as I sit on the porch,

More than I have ever seen in my three years here.

I am eating cold pizza,

I drink my second beer.

The sun sets, shining on the highest window of the house across the street, blinding me.

I have candles, tomatoes, and more beer. It’s going to be a good night.

LSMFT

By S. Morgan

He had magical eyes. The fact that he was playing Highland bagpipes in a Celtic rock band was suddenly immaterial.

It’d been about a year since I’d seen someone with the intensity and sparkle that he had. I looked down at his feet, already knowing he’d be balanced on his toes. And I was just getting use to the comfortable, relaxed feeling I imagined all normal human beings must experience on a daily basis.

So much for being normal.

“Oh no,” the words involuntarily slipped past my lips as the crowd around me bounced and surged with the music. Naomi, the friend who had dragged me to the Kilt-Rock fest, looked up at me from her five-foot or so height. She started to ask “what?” but stopped mid-syllable. She’d been along for too many of my escapades not to notice that look in my eye. In fact, as I thought about it, she was almost like my sidekick now wasn’t she?

“Which one?” she asked, coming close to my ear so as to be heard over the pounding drums and the racing guitars. Her warm breath caressed my neck. Did I detect a note of sadness in her voice? Was I to blame for ruining what would otherwise have been a lovely evening, for possibly destroying one of her favorite bands? Yeah, probably.

“The one with the bagpipes.” There was relief, if it could be called that, in the way she sighed and said, “That’s Scott. I was afraid it was Dan.”

“Dan?” I turned back to the stage just as a tall slender figure came leaping forwarded to the welcoming roar of the crowd. Clad in tap-studded shoes and a flapping tailcoat, he began a flailing jig. Unlike the solid, ridged Irish dancing populated by Riverdance-wannabees, this young gentleman was flashy and fresh. His arms twirled out from his sides, his Cheshire cat grin sparkling. The feeling I got from him was overwhelming and all but drove me out the back door of the crowded club. I brought my hand to my forehead and made my way to the bar. I chugged a Killian’s before I turned to Naomi, who hovered like a child at my elbow.

“That’s Dan?” I asked.

She nodded, trying to hold back her unmistakable misery.

I needed something stronger than beer. I got us both a Dewar’s on the rocks.

***

“Yes, Lucky Strike means fine tobacco. And fine tobacco means more pure smoking enjoyment for you.”

Elless pulled a pair of black boots on over her fishnets. She liked the little cliché of a radio, with its buzzing mono speaker, covered in woven yellow and brown fiber. She liked to giggle at the tame, old jokes Jack Benny made. She liked the way her knees got all squoshy at the sound of Dennis Day’s tenor voice reverberating off the walls of her cave-like bedroom.

She swung herself, one arm at a time, into her black leather jacket. I’ll need some flower power, she thought, stashing little bottles of comfrey and Echinacea into her back pack. Some rose water, some quartz. Maybe her book? No, that would be too heavy. She grabbed the quiver of pink arrows that hung near her bed and strapped it to her back. Switching off the radio that continually played old radio shows, she grabbed her bow.

Elles marched out the back door. The summer night was ripe and full like a swollen peach. A man went tearing past and jumped into a bush - a rabbit who was turned into a man.

Elles knew this. Garrett told her.

Garrett’s place was a cemetery. When she got there, it was decked out in balloons like a party was going on. A boy sat on a gravestone, smoking a cigarette.

Elles called to him, “Garrett!”

Garrett looked up. With a spindly finger, he motioned to her.

“What is it?”

Garrett handed her a crumpled pack of Luckys. As she took it, three cigarettes crawled out, like paper-wrapped caterpillars. Words appeared on the wrappers: “LUCK, FUCK, TRUE LOVE.” is what they said.

She started to remove one, but he slapped her hand and the caterpillars disappeared back into their cellophane chrysalis. A background soundtrack began to play. Her arrows itched to fly through the air. She wanted so much to join him, but she was held in this world against her will. And now that she had the magical smokes, she must move on.

She walked along the tracks until they crossed 48th street. Then she stood in the center of the road until Mahawksy showed up to kill her.

I just about mowed her down.

She was standing in the center of the road, and I was drowsy, slightly drunk and driving too fast. Still, I slamed on the breaks and screeched to a halt, my front tires making a jolting bumpbump as they rolled over the train rail sunk in the asphalt.

She was dressed provocatively punk and looked too young to be roaming the street without a protective pack of teenagers surrounding her. She walked up to the window and I thought for a minute she’d proposition me. Instead, she asked for a lift. I should have known better, but, as stated, I wasn’t functioning at my highest.

She started questioning me almost the instant her skinny butt hit the seat.

“Do you always pick up hitchhikers? Don’t you worry that I could be carrying a gun? How do you know I’m not going to shoot you?”

“I don’t know, I can’t see the future,” I said, which was a half truth. The hitchhiker, who said her name was Elles, pronounced L.S., studied me. “But I know you’re not going to kill me.”

“Are you going to kill me then?” she asked. Her voice was like Fruit Stripe gum, full of artificial sweetness. “Are you going to rape me?”

“No, I’m not going to rape you,” I said, ready to kick the little tramp out of my car. “What is your problem?”

“I know who you are. I am here to stop you.”

“No you’re not I mean,” I stumbled. I’d let on that, yes, there was something that I did that was unstoppable. How could she know? She couldn’t. I paused. “Who do you think I am?”

“Death.”

“I’m not death,” I said, cringing. I began to get an unreal feeling from the girl. Slowly, I pulled to the side of the street. We were in a residential neighborhood and there were plenty of houses around, plenty of witnesses. Even though it was late, or early depending on how you looked at it, there were still a few cars going past. “I think you should get out of the car. I’m sorry. I can’t take you any further.”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

I looked over at her. There were crystals in the corners of her eyes. The feeling I got from her was not the same as the feeling I got from Dan or Scott. She was like a puma, ready to pounce at my jugular. At the thought, I felt the vein in my neck pulsating. Her eyes were wild. Maybe she’s high, I thought. Just as I started to breathe a sigh of relief, she dropped the bombshell.

“You.Took.Garrett. I need to know how you did it.”

My stomach jumped. My God, she did know. Shit! I turned my head back to the road and let off on the break; the car began to roll again. I reached down to turn up the CD that’s been playing in the background. I needed to think, impossible with Elles shooting daggers through me. The lead singer on the CD was one of them, and instead of sending him back, I just took away what made him one of them. He never made music like that again. It’s my favorite CD.

Finally I spoke. “I don’t want to do what I have to do.”

“So why do you do it?”

“Because I have to.”

“You can see the future.”

“No, but I can tell when people have to die.”

“Do you know how I die?”

I hesitated, feeling her body, old and heavy and tired, slipping away. “Yes.”

“Do you know how you die?”

“Yes.”

“How do you die?”

“I fall.”

She had something in her hand; I couldn’t see what it was. “You fall?”

“Uh, no,” I amended, “I jump.”

We sat in silence. It was a cigarette she held. She lit it expertly and cranked down the window to let the warm night air in and the noxious smoke out. “So how do you do it?”

“Can I have one?”

Her gaze burned me, but she lit a cigarette and passed it over. I took a drag, and choked on the harsh, lung-raking toxicity. It was filterless. “I have only seen a few. The guy you hear singing was the first one. I didn’t send him back; I just took away the part of him that didn’t fit here. Then I realized that was actually crueler than getting rid of him completely. He was an artist. Now he can’t do anything. Like a runner without legs. He’s lost.”

I tried again to inhale, ready this time for the stinging black smoke. “God, this is like sucking on a tailpipe,” I said, rolling the thing between my fingers. There was something written on the side of it: TRUE LOVE. I flung it out the window.

Suddenly she lunged and I felt a stabbing pain in my right arm. I jerked back, the car swerving over the road. “What the hell!” I reached over and felt what I thought was a sharpened pencil sticking in my bicep. I tried to rip it free but it didn’t budge. I squealed the car to a halt at the side of the road before she hauled back and stabbed me again. A heart-tipped arrow slammed down into my thigh. I struggled to open the door and threw myself out onto the pavement. Unfortunately, she crawled over to the driver’s side and notched one of the arrows into her bow, something she hadn’t been able to when I was cozily confined to the car. I rolled away from the pink arrow as it careened off the hard ground, and my eyes focused on a truck barreling towards me. I tried to leap up out of the way, but my right leg wouldn’t obey. I knew I didn’t die like this, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t be very, very hurt.

Then I felt her grab my shoulder and drag me back. The truck sped past, striking the corner of my knee. I screamed as it spun me around. She pulled me back into the car with amazing strength. I struggled over her lap as she closed the door and jammed her foot down on the gas.

***

I sat next to the car later that night at the Truman Heights overlook, my leg stretched out, throbbing. I couldn’t tell if anything was broken. At first it felt like everything was, but the more I poked and prodded, the less serious I thought it was. Elles stalked around and made cryptic comments.

“I can’t believe you did that, you let it go,” she railed. “I needed that! They were from the Man Dragon. It was a gift.”

“I need a drink,” I stated, and she flung a bottle at me. I didn’t even look at what it was, just knocked it back. It was sweet and cool. And thankfully alcoholic.

She notched another arrow and crouched down about a yard away, aiming at my heart. Then, on second through, she aimed at my stomach. “I should start this arrow on fire and flame your fuel filled belly.”

“Yes, yes you should.” I took another swig of the bottle. “But then do you know what the world would look like? Do you know who we have already gotten rid of? I’m not talking about saving a life or two here and there, I’m talking pollution, genocide, plagues, thousands.”

She pulled her bowstring back as far as it would go and I involuntarily tightened my abdomen, even though I knew that was probably the worst thing I could do under the circumstances. She let the arrow fly and it slammed into the ground, burying itself half way up the hilt. She let her head fall forward and looked at me though a veil of dirty blond hair.

“How did you know about me? How did you find me?” I asked her.

“Garrett told me.”

“Garrett’s gone. I sent him back, oh, at least a year ago. Actually, almost exactly a year ago.”

She looked straight up into the sky. Then she rose up onto her toes and spun around. She skipped around the car. In less than a minute, I heard a song begin to play, and the voice of the artist whose art I’d taken away. It was divine, as always.

She came back to me, this time examining my wounds. My leg was a mess, but she declared it would be fine. Nothing busted, perhaps some ligaments torn around the kneecap. And of course I still had an arrow buried in the muscle of my upper leg, but she said it wasn’t near anything vital. “I need my arrow back. Lie down.”

I took a long swallow of the drink, then reclined on the grass, closing my eyes. Lyrics drifted from the car as I felt the arrow begin to move. It wriggled back and forth like a writhing, worming snake:

“No one loves me and no one loves you.

is this always bad, is this always true?

maybe you should come to me

and I should go to you”

I felt the head of the arrow turn sideways, slide out like a switchblade, the point barely catching on my filleted skin. The sky above was filled with swirling stars. The world began to spin, Elles dancing around me like a mad pagan priestess.

But in truth she was still, hunched over me, examining my arm. She mumbled something into my pain and drink addled ear, then dumped more of the sweet wine over my lips. I managed to swallow most of it without choking. Then I felt her jam the arrow through to the other side of my arm, in effect pinning me to the ground. A spasm wracked my body, but I didn’t cry out. She placed a booted foot onto the fletched end of the arrow and delicately applied pressure, as if she were driving a tent stake into soft sand. The arrow, greased with blood, slid effortlessly through. I barely felt it.

“Mumble mumble,” I heard her say.

“Um, hm.” I answered.

“Msitup mumbastard.”

She put her hand behind my shoulder and hoisted me up into a sitting position. I probably shouldn’t be drinking wine given to me by a girl who has shot or stabbed me three times, I thought too late.

“I didn send Scotback,” I managed. “Or Dan. I coudent get closenough. Dan’s one powerfulsucker.” I giggled. I tried to focus in on her eyes but they were so dilated, surrounded by darkness, I couldn’t make out their color. “My arm hurts.”

“You didn’t send who back?”

I shook my head, then regretted it. “I want to lie down.”

“No,” she commanded. “Why didn’t you send them back?”

“Oh just not tonight. They’re famous. That’s always harder, they’re harder to get at. It’s going to be hard to send Dan back, he’s very strong. Some are stronger than others.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you want to know all this? Do you want to bring Garrett back because you can’t. If you want me to send you to him I can’t do that either because you’re human.”

“I need to know so that I can stop you and others like you. What you are doing is wrong. The world isn’t any more dangerous with them in it. They aren’t the murders, they aren’t the ones cutting down the rain forests or leading multinational businesses, putting profit above all else. They’re like me. They’re artists, they’re students, they’re nobodies.”

I was going to shake my head again, but chose instead to tap my temple. “There’s nobody else like me. And I don’t kill them, I only…”

“Yes,” she interrupted, “send them back to their dimension or world or whatever. Not everyone goes back though, even if you banish them or exorcize them or whatever the hell it is you do. What is it that you do - do you stare them down? Do I have to put out your eyes?” She waved an arrow at my face. “Maybe I’ll do that anyways, just to slow you down.”

“I’ve had enough,” I reached up and grabbed her tiny little bird wrist and shook the arrow out of her hand. “How strong are you really?” She struggled and punched my punctured arm, which set the pain momentarily ablaze. I let her go and fell back, rolling, on the grass. The CD player reached the end of the disk and shut off.

In the dark quiet of a city night I could hear the distant roar of traffic speeding mightily down the interstate. Above, a red-eye flight buzzed and blinked its way across the sky. Elles put a booted foot on my neck. She was not heavy, but as my arm and my leg and my mind went progressively numb, I felt too weak and too tired to fight her off. She had another one of those damn arrows pointed at me. With the toe of her boot, she clipped my chin, the way fathers do with their fists in old movies, when they say “buck up son, it’s not so bad as all that.” You know, when the son has to shoot his dog.

I took a deep breath. “It’s very simple.” I struggled to raise myself, to sit up and present my case with some sort of dignity. Her foot slid down my chest and over my crotch., light and dangerous like a poison butterfly. So much for dignity.

“Don’t make me tell you,” I said. “There’s nothing you can do to stop it, really.”

She leaned into her right leg just enough to make her point, the arrow notched and trained on my torso. I tried to think back to see if I’d ever had to tell anyone flat out like this before. With Naomi, it was just natural. I had to point out the determining factors, explain what I was looking for, and it gradually became accepted. We would go on treasure hunts together. She couldn’t actually understand what was happening, what I was doing really. She didn’t feel the “disturbance in the force;” the giddy ripple in the air that surrounded them, the hot surge that would be mistaken for lust if it weren’t for the frightening confusion that accompanied it. But she believed in me enough to humor me.

Elles knew, she understood. And she obviously didn’t believe anything had to be done.

“Elles, please,” I tried hostage tactic. Try to personalize yourself to your kidnapper. “Why don’t you come with me, I can show you. Better yet, I’ll just stop. I don’t want to do it anymore anyways.

“I’m sick of threatening you. Now tell me or so help me I’ll run you over with your own car, prop your mangled body in the front seat and drive you off the cliff. That’ll make for an interesting investigation, don’t you think?”

I just wanted to rid myself of this annoying mosquito of a girl, to be passed out in my own bed sleeping off a killer hangover, to be whisked away from this bad dream.

“I have to know their name, I have to touch them, and I have to tell them.”

“Tell them what?”

The dew was beginning to gather around my prone form. I felt the side of my face getting moist where it pressed against the soil. “Tell them what I see, tell them what is going to happen, tell them that they don’t belong here, tell them that they have to go. That singer, the first one, I didn’t tell him directly, I wrote him a letter. I guess then they don’t totally disappear, they just learn to work around it, but it still destroys the magic in them.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Three steps. Three steps to rid the world of a magic that doesn’t belong here.”

She took a step backwards, leaned against the car, removed the pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She tossed it to the ground. Where it lay, I could just read the letters spelled out along the bottom of the pack: L.S.M.F.T.

I looked up at Elles. “Elles Emeftee?”

She looked askance, then her face began to change. I knew what she was seeing - she was seeing what I was no longer able to. I don’t know how it had happened, but somehow I was free. She had taken the oar from Charon on the river Styx.

“Elles wait,” I said as she dropped her bow and arrow.

“What have you done!” she screamed.

“It wasn’t me! Wait, I don’t know. I know what you’re seeing, just hold on, I’ll help.”

Her eyes darted left and right and she ran at me, grabbed my shirt and, shaking me, asked, “what the hell is happening?”

“Stop stop stop,” I chanted, finding it hard to focus. Vaguely in the back of my mind I was elated. I struggled to rise. She helped me up.

“Oh my God,” she said, grappling with me as if she wanted to embrace me and fling me with a judo move at the same time.

“What do I do? What did you do?”

“I’ll help you,” I slurred. “Please just calm down.”

She looked at me, and I read disgust in her eyes. “You, oh my God. Oh my God no!”

I wasn’t sure what she was seeing, but she started to back up and tried to throw my hands off her shoulders. I followed, stumbling. I no longer knew how she was going to die; I couldn’t see my own body as I had every morning, every day and ever night, about as old and as tall and as fit as I was now, lying broken and bleeding beyond repair at the base of a mountain. She was leaning against the rail of the overlook, continuing to back up until I could see she was starting to crawl over the barrier and insinuate herself into the night, whimpering and crying with the realization of the futility of it all. “Stay away,” she yelled.

I reached out then, tried to pull her back from the precipice. “Elles.”

But my arm wouldn’t hold her, and my leg wouldn’t hold me, and we both tumbled into the darkness, pummeled by rocks and trees and branches and stumps.

****