That Which Is Lacking

    He wiped the sleep accumulated crust from his eyelashes and yawned over his first cup of coffee. He’d slept late and long on this, his day off, and felt refreshed. The weariness of the work week fallen away. “The sun rises, the sun sets,” he thought “and in between I need to write.

    Other things needed to be done as well, of course. It was his day off from work, yes, but there was still work to be done. Laundry and grocery shopping. Vacuuming and dusting. The cats would need fed and the litter box cleaned. All the daily and disgusting chores of ordinary life. Still he was writing and that was a pleasantness to be enjoyed.

    He was writing and had written much already, the bulk of the project already completed, but his editor wanted more. Always more. Of the writing of books there is no end.

    But his notebook was lined and crossed with false starts and thoughts going nowhere. Dangling participles and sentence fragments. A void of returning problems. Problem. There was only ever one problem. All editorial effort, all creative confusion came down to this: There is nothing new...

    The blank page

    He flipped through the pages of his notes, looking for a way in. A way into the words.

    “Mysterious alarm…” No.

    “Toxic potency…” Not quite.

    “Rumpled heartbeat…” No. “Rumpled heartbeat? What is that?” He crossed it out and wrote again. “Rapid heartbeat…” But still no.

    His cell phone rang, interrupting his lack of progress, a call from his editor. “Good morning, Lester,” he answered. “It’s a bit early to be calling to check on me, isn’t it?”

    “No, no, no” the editor pleaded. “You misunderstand. I don’t want to… But if you could give me an idea, an estimate… how many pages?”

    He sighed. “That which is lacking, Lester, cannot be counted.”

Preadvised and Disremembered: A Memoir and Confession

     I was doting on old associations, old friends and ex-wives, thinking that I had not advanced among my peers. Neither first in any domain nor new thought. I was too long preadvised toward the same old gospel with the same old averages and I went into the gateway for a bad cause. I went about the city established and forgot the boy. Night came with alcohol and I disremembered all I had ever been.

    I went on living and laid down with old excuses. Living and laid down with the devil of mysteries. The Devil king of Babylon praised the gods of gold while I was practicing with stones and no doubt. I read too much of the vain and learned writers, candid writers. I was Hercules in Egypt. I was Horus among the Romans. Lost.

    The labels warning about the health risks standing in front of divinity were there for anyone to see. The hazards associated with the consumption of too much gin. Worn threadbare. Operating machinery after drinking. Head first. But I went on undeterred. If I should disobey orders and ask for Cancer, at least I would know that it wasn’t consumption.

    Later, when accused of imbalance, with every kingdom in desolation, every city, every house eliminated, bacteria and dysbiosis, inflammation under the influence, and the oxidative stress of pagan free radicals I would come to question the warnings ignored.

    Body specific. And Divinity recedes into memory. Focusing on what I had missed. The esophagus eliminated. The liver removed. No doctrine. Dabbling in doubt for nearly fifty years. The boy I was was lost; the father I became, agnostic. But my mouth, still confessing Christian. All social aspect and interaction. Invited to summer places, he followed on without argument for modern errors. Always preaching the same thing: He that believeth…

    It doesn’t have to be philosophical question. It doesn’t have to be the power of God. I’m just looking for the open door in this land of murder, bloodshed, and the uproar of fire. A thousand years of hope untapped. A broken heart crossed out.

The J. Carterman Catalog

 A Vague Paranoia

    Raul left home when he was eighteen. Worked his way across the country – ranch hand, taxi driver, deli-clerk. Whatever. But no matter where he went, no matter what he did, there was a sense that something, somewhere was just about to go wrong. A look from a coworker, a headline in the newspaper, an unidentified sound. It all amounted to the same. With one eye over his shoulder and one foot on the wheel, Raul was forever on the move.

    A Vague Paranoia  (No. J83752) – one hundred percent natural anxiety. Hand woven. The deep wine color infuses the whole ensemble with a splash of personality.

An American Irritability

    “There’s nowhere to go,” Sam thought to himself. “Nothing to do.”

    He closed his laptop and sipped his lukewarm coffee and sighed. The music, if you could call it that, on the radio grated at his nerves. The people in the café crowded too close. They smelled of cigarettes and sweat and garlic. Garlic, gah!

    This European vacation was a mistake.

    An American Irritability (No. J 73114) – hand painted on silk. Mother-of-pearl buttons at center front and cuffs. 

Mild Seasonal Despair

    It was the smell of wet, rotting leaves and cigar smoke that reminded her of her father. His leather jacket. His cheap aftershave. His many varieties of moods for a variety of weather. He could shift and swing with the wind. He could sing all the song s on the radio. But he was gone - twelve years gone. ‘And,’ she told her therapist, ‘this winter has gone on so long I’ve forgotten the sun.

    Mild Seasonal Despair (No. J99341) – breathable fabric. Size S – XL. SOLD OUT.

Now For War

    Now an apocalypse of our own making.
    Now an apocalypse we can use.

    We are bombing schools for the cause of Christ
    And the Christ, Inc. shareholders approve
            (but deeply regret the inevitable, but very necessary, tragedy)
    of bombing hospitals.

    Appointed, anointed
    and the self-aggrandizement
            of worms who are not men
    to light the signal fires in Iran
    to cause Armageddon
            explosive encounters
    to mark the return of Jesus
            false face actor of a
            grotesque eschatology,

    crude bones unsubstantiated
    and the groping swagger
            of insatiable egos
    flaunting the marks of its colors

    burn gold, silver, and precious oil
    your greater condemnation
            revealed in fire

    the Earth groans murder
    under the villainies of your theology
    the fires of signal men shriek faster
    and strip flames from the doors of hell.

    Now for war.

The Euphrates House

    There is an empty house across the street from my home. Empty but not abandoned. Not exactly. There are never any vehicles parked in the driveway. And there are never any lights in the windows. The yard is mowed just often enough to prevent the city from issuing a citation, but I’ve never seen anyone pushing a mower. The porch is collapsed and a few windows are broken, but it’s not condemned.

    I’ve been curious about the place since I moved in here about four years ago. I’ve never seen any yard decorations. No Christmas lights. I never hear music from the place. Never hear laughing squealing children. There’s no dog crap in the yard, so I don’t think there are any pets. The stray cats that congregate under the collapsed porch can’t count as pets.

    I’ve been curious so today I decided to investigate. I don’t know why the urge came over me… I walked up and down the sidewalk staring up at the house, seeing the places where the siding’s come loose and started to fall away, seeing the seedlings growing in the gutters, seeing the falling soffits. From the sidewalk I could see a single set of human footprints in the snow (unshoveled from the walk and driveway…) led to the front door and, presumably, entered the house. No prints exited or led away from the house. At least not from the font door. So I walked around the corner and back up to the house through the alleyway behind the house. No footprints at the back door either. Just a small mound of snow covered, discarded appliances.

    Call me a snoop. Call me a sneak. You’re probably right.

    I went back around to the front of the house, steeled up my nerve, and approached the house. Climbing carefully over the collapsed porch, I stood at the door and knocked. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock.” The words of scripture came inappropriately to mind and I chuckled. I knocked again. But there was no answer. After waiting a few minutes and watching cars drive up and down the street, I knocked on the door once more.

    The front door sagged on its hinges and collapsed inward. The topmost hinge pulled away from the frame and fell downward. It then swung open, limping on the bottom hinge.

    “Hello?” I called into the house. “Um.. I’m sorry about your door.” I could hear my voice echoing around inside the empty, silent house. “Hello?” I stepped inside and called out again. “I knocked and your door... it sorta collapsed.”

    The air inside the house was warm (but I couldn’t hear any noise from a furnace) and had the antiseptic, phenol smell of old time Bandaids. I took another step into the house. Call me a snoop. Call me a sneak. You can add trespasser too, I guess. Just then a jump-scare cat yowled and leaped down from somewhere unseen and I nearly screamed. The cat ran past me and out the door.

    Fully inside now I could hear something new – the sound of running water. From the basement, perhaps. A slow churning. Ancient and deep. A border, a boundary dividing order from chaos and life from death. The power of water is untamed. Hard. Strong. Rivers and dragons. “Sounds like someone’s left the bath running,” I called out, but there was no answer.

    I turned back to the door and swung it back towards closed. Broken as it was, it didn’t catch, but I closed it enough to keep out at least some of the winter wind. Committed to my intrusion now, I shrugged off my coat and hung it on a hook on the wall. “Forgive us our trespasses,” I muttered.

    I wandered further into the house. Living room, hallway, closet, kitchen. All the rooms of an ordinary house laid out in the ordinary way. All empty. No furniture. No photos. No plants.

    Strange, discomforting thoughts entered my mind. The spirit does not die after the death of the body. It persists. It lingers long in a dismal existence. Distressed and murdered souls in the basement. Is this Asphodel? Or the Pit of Tartarus? Gloomy wandering in and out of the ethereal plane. Incurably damned.

    The windows were obscured with some sort of yellow-gray grime. The light filtering through was uneven and unpleasant. Dust hung slowly in the air. Immortality will be granted at a future time under certain conditions. Attracting unwanted attention. The dust will return. Every time.

    I shook my head to clear the nonsense. But the thoughts continued. There is an increasing demand for narcotics and revenge. Who has woe? Who has sorrow? Contentions? Complaints? Wounds without cause? Who had redness of the eye? Your eyes will see strange things. Your heart will hear perversions.

    “Hello?” I called out again. That’s when I saw the stairway door – down to the basement. A light switch was mounted there on the wall at the top of the stairs. I flicked it and light from somewhere appeared. “Hello?” I no longer expected an answer, but still I called.

    And then I decided to see what was in the basement. Stupid decision, I know. I’ve seen the horror movies. I’ve listened to the true crime podcasts. I know how these things go. I know what happens, but still I began to descend the stairs.

    But two or three steps down I halted. Frozen. Suddenly afraid.

    ‘I cannot be cowardly here,’ I said to myself. ‘I will go down the unbelieving stairs.’ I moved again. Slower. ‘What went on in this house, what abominable secrets are in the basement.’ another step. ‘Murder? Sexual assault?’ Another stop. ‘Some sort of sorcery with black candles and circles drawn with salt?’ Down the stairs, one step at a time. ‘There are idols down here.’ I could feel it, every step. Closer. Deeper into the lie. God, it was getting hotter

    The basement was empty and unfinished. Bare walls, exposed concrete. Nothing. No furnace. No ducts. Why was it so hot in there? I wiped the beaded sweat from my forehead with my sleeve. “Hell…” I started to call out once more, but my voice choked.

    In the uncanny light of the empty basement I saw four doors, framed directly into the far wall. Massive, solid doors. And strung across each door were heavy, iron chains secured with filigreed padlocks. Curious, I took a step toward them.

    That’s when the jump-scare cat stepped out of a shadow and mewed at me. At least I think it was the same cat that frighted me at the front door. I didn’t have a chance to look at it closely as it ran out the door. But here it was again in the basement, blocking my path.

    “Hey there, little guy.” I said. “Are you the only one here?” The cat looked at me quizzically but said nothing. Why would he? He licked his paw and cleaned his ear.

    I took another step toward the chained doors and reached to examine one of the locks. And suddenly the jump-scare cat was joined by a great company of cats. Mewling, yowling, stretching, pawing, clawing cats with flicking tails and proud whiskers.

    “What the…” I began to say. The cats swarmed at my feet, rubbing themselves against my ankles, clawing lightly at my jeans. “What’s going on here?” I reached down to pet a black and white mottled cat with slightly crossed eyes. “What is this?” The cat allowed me to stroke his head a few times but then nipped at my fingers with his teeth. A warning? But of what?

    What was locked behind those doors? What mystery? What horror? Where did those doors lead? To some mystic, windswept valley in the light of a garish colored sunset. Did I hear the sound of long-haired Tibetan warriors mounted on horseback?

    Suddenly, as I stared at the doors, I heard the sound of a far distant trumpet, a ram horn shofar blown across the great expanse of the sky and the chains barring those four doors began to rattle. The cats scattered into shadow and I fled the house, staggering incautiously up the stairs, and bursting through the broken door.