Susan Shultz's Blog, page 8

I can’t throw out a crayon

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I can’t throw out a crayon

Even if it’s broken.

As long as there’s still color,

I see its dreams, unspoken.

I can’t toss out a crayon

Though it’s smashed like a mallet.

I still see the potential

Of each tiny little palette.

I can’t let go of crayons —

Their waxy feeling harkens,

back to early etchings —

My envy of the sharpener.

Each crayon has a purpose

Much more than just a mess.

So whether 12 or 64,

I’ll never quit my quest.

Those little Lego bastards, though,

They are not granted such respite

And when caught in my vacuum, thus,

 — They might go missing for a bit. 

Optimism

[image error]My head hurts less than my life —

It’s probably just allergies.

I’m allergic to bullshit.

My hands hurt less than my head,

ragged nails, I taste my own blood,

a sacrifice, a self-sacrament.

A digestion of stress, cracked skin a mess.

My feet hurt less than my hands —

carrying the groceries,

my protection pounds,

my swallowed secrets.

my dirty towels.

My lungs hurt less than my feet —

I’m good at gasping at air,

counting till the spots disappear.

My brain hurts less than my lungs,

until the next day —

after I made it go away.

My heart hurts more than yesterday.

But less than tomorrow.

Right?

Less than tomorrow.

Ode to the salmon I made for dinner

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For you, salmon. You gave your life to feed us. You deserve better.

Your “honeys” are gift wrap on boxes of crap

Your “honeys” are pet names so I swallow that

Your “Where is dinner?” when I’m just in the door

Your  “I’m not hungry'” when I’ve made need du jour

I’d rather you’d call me a lazy ass bitch

I’d rather it clear you appreciate shit

Don’t give me your honeys, lest I may choke

Don’t try to paint sweetness on purely a joke

I’d rather your honesty – it surely would help

So I could be free to say go fuck yourself

Less

[image error]You will think I’m meaningless

in your histories –

I will wade in the hard blinking

Shielding truth in tears.

You will think I’m worthless,

nothing left to save,

just like the remnants of the meal you just microwaved.

You will think I’m worthless

Until your perfection

Faces reflection.

You can’t hear me singing,

till that song comes on,

And still you’ll give your deaf ear

to all you have done wrong.

You can’t hear my heart beat.

You view silence as defeat.

You can’t hear me screaming

Because I can’t.

You won’t see my anger

Until I rant.

You refuse to taste my blood

Until I force the bleed.

You will see me meaningless

Because you’re fucking mean.

Disappointment Diner

[image error]May I show you to your table?

You got here just in time.

There are almost no seats left.

Today’s house special is failure,

With a side of anger or disdain.

You have plenty of options.

Get it snack size –

For just that hint of frustration

On your tongue.

Or that meal I am unable to complete,

So you are left wanting.

In that case, your table won’t need salt.

In a colorful happy meal

With a piece of crap

Disguised as a toy –

Overcompensation included

With a napkin for tears.

My failure comes

In a quick shot of whiskey

That burns going down.

But if you do it fast

You can chase it with deflection.

Ignore it eating your insides.

Me?

I’m not hungry.

But if you are, my failure comes

In “all I’ve been unable to swallow.”

It is our largest portion,

Served family style.

My failure comes in four courses –

A holiday meal,

A tasting menu.

It’s a feast for all senses

And takes all day to make.

Enjoy its acidic aroma as it simmers.

Eat course after course,

No avoiding.

No forgetting.

Digestion so slow –

While we all stare at the dirty dishes

I cannot hide –

And can’t ever wash clean.

1993

 

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How I commuted  — contemplating the selling of my soul to corporate in 1993 — over giant Foster’s Oil Cans.

For Robert Frost, and Kathy Dempsey and the hippie fest.

Two roads diverged — in New York, broke,

So starving my artistic side,

I lost a future, culture-soaked —

Failed to escape the corporate side

Avoid the green path I’d deride.

I took the traveled one, and though

My soul was empty as I’d work;

I’d read on the Ferry, to and fro

Lament the chance to teach deep verse

And in great  literature immerse.

 

But still, the easy shopping sprees

The money path no longer hard —

I’d fill my car with gas with ease

And not have subway rides too far.

(Gave up my starving artist card.)

 

One day, I found a feast of song

In Central Park, praised love and life

I knew this was where I belonged.

I found what I had sacrificed —

Yet, shrugged, dismissed, for what sufficed.

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence

Two roads diverged, my crucial time;

I, took the one the shallow try.

But shaking compass will commence. 

Skipping rocks

 

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My life is a narrative of quick fixes

the minimum payment

the splicing of the cassette tape

the candle in place of electricity

my life is my mouth pressed to the carved hole

in the underwater tank

the book read aloud in the car

to mask my own thoughts

the $5 in my gas tank

To just get where I need to go and

My life is the fleeting laugh

to drown the tears.

My life is saying I’m sorry for what others did wrong.

My life is fake flowers, colorful and without fragrance.

My life is a joke to change the subject.

the foundation in the wrong color

on sale at CVS to hide the wrinkled years.

My life is clothes that don’t fit

and the pile put aside

for when i just know they will again.

My life is wiping off the bathroom sink

with my dirty laundry

So it ‘looks’ clean.

It’s sleeping in my clothes because

I don’t have time to change.

My life is splurging for the horror movie

so I forget about folding the laundry

My life is telling everyone, “Don’t worry about it,”

When I never stop worrying.

Blinking back the tears,

because I’m just sneezing —

It really doesn’t hurt.

It’s the over the counter in the place of

a needed prescription.

It’s keeping the lights off in the shower

so I can’t see the truth.

It’s pretending to love the darkness

When I’m really afraid of the light.

Not effacing, it is self-eviscerating.

My life is a blindfold,

over eyes closed,

and letting go of your hand,

before you can do it first.

My life is a minimum payment.

It’s piling smiles on the pain I’ve buried.

to make you feel better.

My life is the silence

used to disguise heartbreak.

It’s a changed subject.

It’s a funny anecdote.

My days are a series of skipped rocks

across life’s surface,

I can’t swim,

I don’t want to know how deep the water is.

It’s quick fixes.

It’s choking on my anger.

A map trail of broken spine leading to another concession.

It’s zero investment.

My life is constantly apologizing for what’s been done to me,

Just so I can breathe another day.

I’ve got this.

It’s on me.

I understand.

Don’t worry about it.

I’m a candle in the darkness.

Vulnerable to even a glance,

My life is a narrative of quick fixes.

As I surrender

to nothing, and again, ask,

But how are you?

Ink

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Dedicated to where it all began, 16 Bailey Avenue — and its dumbwaiter.

“Shit!”

Reporter Rebecca Spettro had just crossed the street in downtown Green Valley when the deluge came pouring from the skies, drenching her hair and her designer boots.

It had not been her fucking day.

She had headed out to this God-forsaken town to look up some old arrest reports on a mayoral candidate that she had gotten a tip about. After turning up basically nothing more than a DUI and one of those hippy protest-type arrests, Rebecca decided to cut her losses and head back to Wiltport.

There was no point in running the protest arrest report — it would simply make Ben Bond a martyr. As it is, he was already considered the candidate for the “man” — looking out for the “people’s” interests. Rebecca rolled her eyes. And a DUI? Those were a dime a dozen.

At this point they were as much a part of Wiltport high society as a country club membership.

Wiltport was not exactly “the man” country, but one could never tell where people might vote — especially as the current mayor was often considered one of the “elite.” Charlie Dickerson (the IV, no less) came from a cornerstone family in Wiltport. In a town that wasn’t fond of outsiders, this was a positive. But the town still had suffered badly from the market crash of the 2000’s, being rich and comfortable wasn’t translating into the voting currency it used to.

Rebecca, hoping to hitch her wagon to Dickerson and his possible higher office, looked forward to being one of those elite herself.

She’d hoped to move his election along with some convenient placement of dirt on Bond. So far, she’d come up short.

In the process, these unfamiliar, damp roads took her old VW Cabrio for a spin and left her with a flat tire.

Naturally, the back roads had zero cell service, and the older car barely had radio let alone any kind of online service alert system.

Faced with no other choice, Rebecca had begun walking toward the downtown, and by downtown, she meant three blocks. She was hoping to find some cell service or a kind hick country boy she could convince to change her tire with a batting of her eyes.

Speaking of eyes, the fact that Rebecca wasn’t hard on them certainly helped her ambition path.

Greased the wheels with her deep hazel eyes. Got a source to spill with a toss of her shiny dark hair. Inspired immediate lust…or, um, trust, with the cross of her shapely legs.

And when it came to women, she was equally as manipulative and effective with her ability to play “girlfriends” and project confidentiality.

Rebecca wiped the rain out of her eyes, and ran her fingers through her soaked hair. She was still a block or two away from civilization, but in front of an old brick face building. It appeared to be about three floors.

She was hoping it might have some kind of wifi or at least shelter from the rain for a minute.

Rebecca pushed the door open and tried not to notice the crack in the glass sending a jarring reflective scar across her face. The sight was disconcerting. Her reflection almost always made her smile. When she was angry or frustrated, there was no more reassuring smile for her to see than her own.

The inside of the building was dark but that was no surprise — it was nearly five. She was sure anyone working in this area had to be home to milk the cows, churn the butter, kiss their sister, etc.

This thought made her chuckle for the first time in the day.

There was a faint light coming from past the second entry door — and she hoped for maybe someone working late. Some kind of sign of life.

She entered the old front office way and just beyond saw stairs heading up to darkness. A light breeze drifted through the window in the dusk and she heart the flutter of papers from somewhere.

A chill rippled down her back, fluttering there like the breeze through the papers she couldn’t see.

Rebecca, in full horror movie cliché mode, tentatively spoke aloud.

“Hello?”

No answer.

Rebecca eyed the dark stairs nervously and tried to listen for any noise over her beating heart.

She gently laid down her laptop bag and was relieved at the absence of weight on her back, momentarily.

It seemed she was always carrying it.

Running her hand through her wet hair again, Rebecca moved further into the office. She got to a cubicle that probably held a greeter or receptionist.

Phone! Rebecca thought.

She moved behind the desk and saw an old landline phone — lifting it, she was surprised it wasn’t still rotary. She put the handset to her head and again, in full cliché mode, tapped the receiver. Somehow, she knew it would be dead.

Even in the unlikely possibility this was still an active office, the rain and wind probably knocked down the two phone lines that served Green Valley.

Rebecca sank into the chair behind the desk and looked at the piles of papers on it.

Papers.

Newspapers.

She laughed to herself.

Well, isn’t this perfect? Rebecca thought to herself.

Piles of the Green Valley Gazette littered the desktop. There didn’t appear to be any dates more recent than a decade ago.

Strange, Rebecca thought.

She opened some of the papers and looked through them. A red pen had corrected some post publication errors — almost as if the marks were to teach a new reporter. Rebecca read on.

“Subjective. Remove opinion.”

“Don’t use very. Show don’t tell.”

“Needs a better lead.”

She laughed again quietly to herself.

Those were the days when she had started out as an entry-level reporter. Her mentor, Brad, tried to lead her down the path of journalistic integrity. As web hits became more and more the measure of your byline’s success, she abandoned that path of the one of least resistance, least work, which equaled more money, and more success.

It was easier than she though. She told Brad often, as he attempted to continue to edit her, that it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

And as the Wiltport Herald continued to gain online attention, her big bosses were certainly not going to discourage what she was doing. Brad shrugged his shoulders and gave up.

Rebecca pondered these thoughts as she flipped through paper after paper as her hair dried.

She finally put them down as she noticed something on her fingers.

“Ink!” she said. “Gross!”

Where was she going to wipe it off? She was wearing a light jacket and white-buttoned shirt with a tan skirt.

“Ugh!” Rebecca said. She’d forgotten this by product of the printed paper — while the Wiltport Herald had a print product, as they called it, it was a second thought to her. An inconvenience to the online product. In most cases, a distraction.

“Something wrong?” a gravelly voice spoke from the darkness.

With a frightened cry, Rebecca leapt out of the desk, papers spilling everywhere.

More ink, she thought.

She peered into the dark to see where the voice was coming from.

“Who is there?” she said, realizing that she had made the horror movie trifecta.

She realized that it wasn’t a joke anymore. She was in the dark with a stranger — she could be in harm’s way and she had no cell service to call the police, let alone for help.

A bright flashlight lit upon Rebecca and it was blinding.

“This is my office. I think you should be doing the explaining, young lady,” the creaky voice responded.

“Oh, yes, well, I apologize,” she said.

She reached out her hand into the bright light and said, “My name is Rebecca Spettro, I’m a reporter with the Wiltport Herald about an hour south from here. I came to town to do some research and got a flat tire, and ducked in here to get out of the rain while walking back to town.”

The light lowered slowly.

“A reporter, eh?” the voice said.

As the light became less blinding, Rebecca saw an old man. A very old man, to use the forbidden “very” word.

He reached out his gnarled hand and Rebecca tried not to flinch, but her disgust registered in her face.

“I am Timothy. Timothy Small. And this…,” he painfully gestured.

“This is my newspaper,” he said.

He noticed Rebecca instinctively trying to remove the ink from her fingers as he talked.

“Got some black on your fingers, there, girl?” he said, smiling like a spreading sinkhole.

She blushed and nodded.

“I was taking a look at your papers and got them stained a bit,” she said, smiling, “I guess I forgot that happens.”

“Forgot?” he said.

“Yes, I guess you have forgotten what ink feels like, haven’t you, Becky?” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” she said, feeling her face begin to flush with uncertainty and anger.

Who the fuck did this country geezer think he was?

“Not yet,” he said, smiling again. “But you can try again later.”

“You don’t know me!” she said.

The old man smiled again.

“Don’t I?” he said.

“Let’s you and I take a walk, Becky,” he said, again using her childhood nickname.

“Excuse me, sir, but no fucking way,” she said. Rebecca moved toward the door, lifting her bag over her shoulder once again — the weight of it surprising.

She tried the door.

It didn’t move.

Rebecca shook the old glass, but it held solid.

“Open this door,” she said, real fear beginning to icicle in her heart.

She summoned all her strength and turned to look the old man in the eye.

His amused smile infuriated her.

“I will, Becky. First I want to talk to you,” he said.

“NO!” she shouted.

“Now!”

“Let me first give you a tour of the Green Valley Gazette. I get so few visitors. Perhaps I can learn something from you — and you can learn something from me,” he said, softly.

“What the fuck could I possibly learn from you, old man! Newspapers are dead! Haven’t you heard! Just like you will be soon!” she shouted, forcefully.

Her face flushed with shame at her own unkind words, but Small showed no reaction and his amusement, if anything, grew.

“Well, then, Becky, this tour should be pretty short, wouldn’t you say?” he said.

Rebecca’s shoulders slumped. She had no door key, and no phone. And it was dark and she had no idea where she was going.

“IF, and I mean if, I do this,” she said, quietly, “Will you let me go? and help me find a phone in this one-horse town?”

“Certainly, my dear,” Small said.

Rebecca dropped her bag again and nervously tried to clean the ink from her hands.

Small pointed the light at the stairs.

“Up there?” she said.

Small grabbed a walking stick.

“You start, I’m a little slower,” he said, handing her the flashlight.

She pointed the flashlight at the stairs.

“I’m …I’m …,” Rebecca couldn’t get the words out.

Small looked at her kindly.

“Don’t be afraid, Becky — no one will you hurt you here,” he said.

She took the first step.

“I’m right behind you,” he said.

Rebecca took one step at a time, slowly. She wished she didn’t have the flashlight because it punctuated her shaking hand like a shooting star.

She was halfway up the stairs now — peering above her.

Suddenly an unforeseen door jiggled along the stairway and slowly slid open, causing Rebecca to scream

“Small!” she yelled, but her shaking flashlight could find no one behind her in its shuddering beam.

“Rebecca!” a voice called from the inside of the wall — from whatever dark depths lurked within.

“Who…who is there?” she said. She was now terrified.

A young man with a cheerful face and dirty hands appeared under the beam of her flashlight, hanging out of the wall like he was on a jungle gym.

“Who are you?” she asked,

But it was admittedly harder to be frightened of this cherubic young man.

“I’m Bobby! I’m the Green Valley paperboy!” he said. “Come on in! I’ll race ya!”

Rebecca peered nervously inside the dark wall and found nothing.

“Come on!” he said, and pulled her inside.

The wind rushed at Rebecca’s face and she covered it in confusion and fright.

It was only after she realized she probably had black marks all over her face from newspaper ink.

“Open your eyes, Rebecca!” Bobby said.

“But…wait…how,” she said.

Bobby smiled proudly.

As Rebecca looked around, she realized she was in the Wiltport Herald office — but it was her office over a decade ago.

She could see Brad, less gray and more handsome, reading something at his desk — in hard copy, with his red pen in his mouth. No screen editing.  He had his feet up on the desk.

She missed that Brad, she thought. She missed his red markups, much like the ones she saw in this office on the desk. Editing digitally, when she allowed him to currently, was cold. There was no give and take. No relationship between editor and reporter.

“Bobby,” she whispered.

“How did we get here?”

“You don’t have to whisper, Miss,” Bobby said.

“They can’t hear us! And wait, here comes the best part!”

Rebecca was so busy watching Brad that she was jolted out of her reverie by the door opening to the small office.

“Hello?”

Rebecca saw herself, a decade ago, tentatively entering the office. Her “hello” echoed the one she had called earlier at the Green Valley office. Tentative, unsure and a little scared.

Rebecca watched her 25-year-old self walk toward the lit office, and Brad adjust his casual pose in his own. She smiled as she watched him amusingly adjust his desk for momentary neatness — it was a lost cause but it was cute he tried.

Her hair was shorter and lower maintenance. She dressed simply in a pair of black jeans and some kind of nerdy slogan t-shirt. This was B-HHH – before highlights, heels and horrendous attitude.

“Rebecca?” Brad said, warmly, “Good to see you again!”

The younger version of herself smiled back and shook his hand.

“You too!” she said, smiling.

“Are you ready to get to work?” Brad said.

“I can’t wait!” she said.

Rebecca blushed, remembering.

“Come on, Rebecca!” Bobby said, grabbing her hand through another whirlwind.

As the wind settled, Rebecca saw her desk, now fully set up, and a mess, as she printed out her story and ran it into Brad.

“Here!” she said excitedly.

Brad smiled at her, taking the papers from her hand.

“You can’t sit here while I edit it, Rebecca. Take a walk,” he said.

Rebecca watched her younger self walk. But she merely paced in the office, unwilling to drift too far away.

“What’s he readin’, Rebecca?” Bobby asked.

“It was my first big story — it really changed things for me,” she said, watching the movie play out.

“You must have been so proud!” Bobby said, smiling.

“I was,” she said, smiling back. I was. So was Brad, Rebecca thought. I forgot what that feels like, she thought.

She remembered that story — it was a huge break, a national source who only chose to talk to her because of her integrity. The integrity she used to have.

Brad slammed the papers down on his desk, causing both the younger and older Rebecca to jump.

He stepped out into the full office and their eyes met.

She had been chewing on her nails and stopped to ask him.

“Well?” the 25-year-old Rebecca said.

The silence and tension hung until Brad reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders.

“You…,” he started.

“You…incredible. Just incredible. I am so proud to be your editor right now,” Brad said.

Both Rebeccas blushed. She could see by his eyes he was telling the truth, but was also holding something back — less to do with journalism and more to do with her.

“Just don’t forget me when you are famous,” he said.

Rebecca smiled in her youthful happiness. Back then she couldn’t imagine either was possible — being famous or forgetting him.

But today, Rebecca realized those words were truer than she realized, she forgot him in order TO be famous.

She turned away from the scene like it was an oncoming car heading for an accident.

“I’m done, Bobby,” she said.

“So am I, Miss!” Bobby said. And disappeared.

Rebecca was back on the stairs with the flashlight.

She felt tears creep into her eyes but she fought them back.

“Small!” she called for the old man. No answer.

“Hello Rebecca!” called a voice from the top of the stairs.

Now what? She thought.

She slowly walked up the stairs to be greeted by a man in an apron, covered with soot like a chimney sweep.

“Who are you?” she said.

“My name is Peter, and I’m the printer!” he said.

Rebecca looked confused.

“Does the Green Valley Gazette still print?” she said, looking around.

“Oh, no, Rebecca. I’m not the Gazette printer. I’m THE printer. I print all,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, not understanding at all.

“Only I don’t have much time, ma’am, so my tour needs to start. You see, there’s not much need for me anymore,” he said, sadly, a faint hint of a brogue coming through.

“There’s more ink on your fingers right now than there is on newsstands — we newspapers are dead, don’t you know,” Peter said. Rebecca blushed, hearing her own words coming back to her.

“Well, not so much,” she started.

“I’m afraid so,” he said, appearing thinner by the minute.

“But take my hand, Rebecca, and we’ll be on our journey. There’s just not that much time left,” he said.

Rebecca stopped.

“Wait a minute,” she said.

“Now I get it — is this like the Christmas Carol story?” she asked.

“This has got to be a bad dream, or something, right? I fell asleep in the car after eating some bad sandwich from that gross diner?” Rebecca said.

“Well, ma’am, I don’t know anything about the story or the sandwich, but what I do know is I need to show you around,” he said.

He took her hand, and in a puff of smoky ink, they were gone.

By the time the smoke cleared, Rebecca had gone from a dusty black to a bright red, as Peter had brought her to a scene she’d not expected to be replayed.

She sat back up in the front passenger side of the unmarked police car, and flipped the visor down to check the mirror, pulling her red lipstick out of her purse.

“I can’t believe I keep letting you talk me into this,” the detective in the driver’s seat said, just as he finished buckling his belt.

“You love it, and you’ll do it again,” Rebecca  said.

She glanced over at Peter, who smiled and winked at her.

The detective laughed. Carl Hopkins knew she was right. He’d been married for 15 years, and never cheated on his wife, but Rebecca was a force to be reckoned with.

She did not take no for an answer. Especially when it came to getting the dirt.

“Now, give me the details on the investigation,” Carolyn said, her hair once again perfect. Lipstick flawless.

Hopkins sighed. The Wiltport Police Department knew there was a leak among its finest, but he’d never be suspected. It was just unlike him. And he also knew if he stopped delivering, Rebecca would find someone else to prey upon. And then he’d stop getting what Rebecca delivered. Better than anyone else ever had for him.

Someone had to benefit. Why not him?

“Here’s the folder. It has everything you need. Photos. Witness statements. Turns out the mother had been on prescription pain meds and she mixed them with alcohol. She was well over the limit. She’ll probably be arrested within the week,” Hopkins said.

The accident had been brutal. A young mother had swerved off a main road, totaling her car, killing her two young children. There were no other cars on the road. The mother was in the hospital, and had been under sedation since learning of the death of her children.

The speculation on the accident’s cause was rampant, as with any tight knit community. The mother was a drunk. The mother was neglectful. The mother got married too young and wanted to be rid of the responsibility. The father was having an affair.

The mother had left the father after an argument and tried to commit suicide and take her children with her.

Hopkins’ folder had the truth, in all its awful detail.

Rebecca had wanted to stay true to the truth and integrity, she thought, watching the scene.

But then she got a taste of the blood. The taste of shredding the competition to be the first, be the best, beat the rest, in breaking news. The first time she did it, the rush was addictive.

Peter rushed her through more inky smoke, and she was back at the office of such a joyous scene, ten years earlier. This time was different, though.

 

Brad came out of his darkened office as she was pounding away.

“Rebecca,” he said quietly to her back.

She ignored him.

“Rebecca!” he said, louder.

“What?” she snapped. “I’m busy.”

This was hard for the present Rebecca to watch, even though it had only happened recently.

“I don’t know what you’re doing to get this shit. I appreciate it, but…” he said.

“Do you? Or did you just want me to kill myself to get this stuff when you thought I was doing it for you?” she said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brad said.

“You know what I mean. You were thrilled when I was the young, dedicated reporter, quite obviously in love with you, working hard to please you, gain your acceptance, maybe even your love,” Rebecca  said

“But you never acknowledged that part of it, except to tell me I was doing a good job. But since I’ve given up on you, and started doing this for myself, you don’t appreciate it anymore. Just get on my back about it,” she said, turning back again.

“Rebecca,” he said, turning the chair around.

“All I want to say is don’t go too far. Don’t sell yourself out for this newspaper. It isn’t important enough to lose you,” he said.

“Brad, that is why you and I will never see eye to eye. Why you will never do what I do, because to me, it IS that important. So why don’t you go back in your office. And I’ll pretend to care what you think. And you pretend to be happy that I’m selling your fucking newspapers,” she said.

Brad stood back, blinking in surprise over how far she’d really gone downhill.

“That’s fine, Rebecca. If that’s what you want. . I only said it because I cared about you. But you’re right. Where you are is somewhere I never want to be,” he said.

“Fine. Then I’ll just leave. And work at home,” she said, slamming her laptop closed and storming out of the office.

For the first time, Rebecca could watch him after she left. He stood quietly watching the door behind her. He ran his fingers through his hair.

Brad went back to his desk, dug a bottle and a shot glass out of the top drawer, and poured and drank one quickly. He looked at the bottom of the glass and poured another.

He walked out into the empty office staring into the darkness.

The silence was breathing.

Brad did the shot, staring again at the wall. He took the glass and threw it hard — shattering the frame on it to pieces.

Rebecca jumped.

She realized what he had done.

“What was the frame, ma’am?” Peter asked.

“It was the team award we won for my first breaking story,” Rebecca whispered.

“I never even noticed it was gone.”

“That’s what happens, ma’am,” Peter said.

“Someday, they’ll say the same thing about newspapers,” he said, and with that, he blew smoke in her face.

Rebecca coughed and sputtered, and when she regained her composure, she was back in the empty office.

Creak…

Where was that coming from? she thought.

Creak….

Faster now. It sounded like a pulley of some kind.

Rebecca followed the sound. It led to an empty hole in the wall.

The rope inside was ancient, and turning.

Creak….

“What the?” she said, nervously.

“What is that? she said.

A low voice appeared right next to her ear.

“It’s a dumbwaiter,” the voice said.

Rebecca jumped along with her heart.

The wheels continued in the darkness.

“Who..where…are you?” she whispered. Her cursed and blessed flashlight jumping from darkness to darkness, finding nothing.

“I…am…everywhere,” the voice said.

“I am the morgue,” it said.

The chill returned to Rebecca’s spine.

“You mean, the newspaper morgue, right?” she whispered.

“The place you keep old copies?” she said.

“I mean the place…where things that expire go to lurk in their own uselessness,” the voice said.

The tiny elevator had made it to the top and Rebecca peered into the darkness.

Before she knew it, cold hands with iron grips pulled her inside and she felt herself falling down….down…

Rebecca reached the bottom of the blackness and lost her light in the process.

“I can’t see…” she whispered, her breathing ragged. Her fear was acid in her throat.

“Wake up!” Rebecca whispered to herself.

“Wake up Wake up Wake up,” she begged herself.

“There is no waking up in the morgue,” the voice said.

A flickering candle attached to nothing floated before her.

It shed brief light on what was her own private graveyard — a place of death and destruction she had left behind.

She’d killed integrity. Truth. Love of her job. The respect, and possible love, from Brad. Respect of her colleagues and competitors.

In the distance the candle continued and she followed it in pain and terror. The gravestone ahead was coming into view, surrounded by sown earth.

Rebecca had read and seen A Christmas Carol enough to know who was buried beneath it.

Still, she got closer. The stone was filthy and hard to read. The shovel was methodically lifting and dumping dirt. She looked past the shovel and used her dirty fingers to wipe away the stone to read.

The shovel continued.

The words became clear. The hands piled on.

And it was worse. Much worse.

The grave was for newspapers. And the candle flickered to show the hands on the shovel.

The hands belonged to her, aged and bitter. A cigarette hanging out of her mouth, her nails with an expensive manicure and her hair perfectly styled. And still the Rebecca she’d become piled on.

She pulled her hands from the grave covered in dirt.

No, not dirt.

Ink. She stared at it in horror.

Rebecca screamed. Screamed in horror and the ink she had scoffed and spilled. Screamed at the expansive morgue she’d laid out ahead of her and behind her.

The dark handprints she couldn’t see on her face were tracked with tears.

++++++++

“Miss!! Miss!”

Rebecca flinched at the bright light shining in her eyes.

“No, no more…” she whispered.

“Brady, she’s waking up,” a male voice said.

“Miss, do you know your name?” she heard a kind voice say.

“Rebecca,” she whispered.

“Hi Rebecca, my name is Jacob. Do you remember what happened to you?” he said.

“Morgue..” she whispered.

Jacob laughed.

She could make out a uniform.

“Now, now, it isn’t that bad. You got into an accident and hit your head when your car spun out. You’re on the way to the hospital for a checkup,” Jacob said.

“Accident,” Rebecca whispered.

“Yes, accident, but you’re fine now. You haven’t broken anything. Do you feel ok?” he asked.

The events came flooding back to her and she suddenly was keenly aware. Of everything.

Her eyes locked with the paramedic.

“Jacob — what’s today?” she asked.

“Today…um…well..it is Tuesday — is that what you mean?” he said.

Rebecca lifted her hands to her face.

They were faintly stained black. She closed her hands into fists to save it — savor it.

“Oh, yeah, that. We couldn’t figure out exactly what that was. We tried to clean it off but it was hard,” he said.

It’s Tuesday, she thought, smiling.

I haven’t missed deadline day. There’s still a chance for me.

“Jacob, can you tell them to step on it? I’m a reporter — I’m a newspaper reporter — on deadline,” Rebecca said.

And starting tomorrow, I’ve got a lot of good ink to spill, Rebecca thought.

 

-30-

If you enjoyed this, check out my horror collection, Tales from the Graveyard, on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/Tales-Graveyard-Collection-Susan-Shultz-ebook/dp/B015GNRYIQ

Tapped out

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What percent are you at?

I haven’t stored

A spare cord.

I can’t let the iPads go —

lest my children become bored.

My stupid battery

Taunts me relentlessly.

It was 60, now it’s 20.

I thought using Wifi

Would give me strength a’ plenty.

Though now the power is out,

it surely won’t make me cry —

To fiercely throw into the snow

This phone that’s made of “i.”

My bastard cord, it won’t connecct,

and now I just can’t breathe.

If only I could just step back —

but this charge leaves no reprieve.

 

This broken USB

Is simply just BS.

Someday I wish to be free

from this circus of access.

Do you have an adapter?

Or maybe a spare cord?

These are the true confessions

of a tapped-out power whore.

My favorite horror movies: Baron Blood

[image error]Ah, October. The leaves are changing. The temperatures are cooler in the morning, perfect during the day, and lovely for sleeping.

And it is the month of Halloween. Or, as I like to call it, the time of year when the shirts I wear all year round look normal.

We all have our areas of expertise. Some of us love music and consider ourselves knowledgeable. Some of us love to read (me included) and can answer any question about current fiction or ‘Dead Poets’ as it were. Maybe we have a wine collection. Maybe we can do any math problem in our head in seconds (in which case, I may call you for some homework help for my kids. #CommonCoreSucks)

Me, I consider myself fairly knowledgable in one department.

Horror movies.

Now, let me be clear. I’m not talking about what goes for horror today (I know, I know. Get off my cobwebbed-graveyard festooned lawn before I summon Vincent Price on you!) Most of the horror today involves blood, blood, and more blood. A lot of it is what is called “torture porn,” i.e. let’s watch body parts being stabbed, cut off, gouged out, made into a giant Jenga puzzle (Ok, I made that last part off, but nothing would surprise me.)

Now, I’m not here to tell you that 60s/70s/80s horror movies didn’t have their fair share of blood — I mean, the movie I’m using as an example above has the word “blood” in it. But my favorites use of blood is as a means, not the end.

So in honor of my favorite month of the year, and to be quite honest, to get a break from writing and editing endless political endorsement letters (not that they aren’t their own brand of horror), I’m going to share some of my favorites.

Disclaimer: These are not the greatest movies ever mad. These aren’t the Citizen Kane of horror movies. I’m not Ebert, or Siskel, or any kind of tomato combination of both — rotten or otherwise.

These are my favorite horror movies that I’ve assembled mentally since I was first horrifically corrupted late at night watching a really bad 70’s horror movie (and we’ll get to that one later.)

This particular movie has to include a shout out to my Aunt Missy, who along with my Aunt Kathy and probably Uncle Bill, were some of my earliest influences in this horror journey.

(Shameless plug— Like horror? Check out my gothical, disturbed and all around fun ride of a horror collection — Tales from the Graveyard, available from Amazon.)

Early in my childhood, my Aunt Missy lived down the street from me, and after school, or maybe during the summer, we’d enjoy what used to be known as the “4:30 Movie.” (There, I’ve googled it for you young people).

Upon such an afternoon, we were sitting my grandmother’s living room, and the above movie was that day’s selection.

If Baron Blood sounds like a cheesy movie, you are correct. God, it is cheesy. There are barely out of 60’s, just into 70’s clothing and hair styles.

Please pause everything you are doing in life to enjoy the opening credits — and be transported back to a time when all love was American Style.

A rather odd choice for a movie about a sadistic count we initially meet as a rotting corpose coming back to life with a dungeon of medieval torture objects. It sounds more like we are about to embark on the Love Boat and head to Fantasy Island. But perhaps such uncertainty is part of the movie’s unsettling genius — no? Ok, I tried.

Why is Baron Blood such a great movie? The trailer…if you dare….

It has all the elements I love:

supernatural protagonist, check
medieval castle, check

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Come on, look how trendy she looks for being terrified. THAT’s a professional.

Elke Sommer, check (Just kidding. I don’t need to have Elke Sommer in my horror movies, but if she’s good enough for Hollywood Squares, she’s good enough for me.
experimenting with magical spells that go horribly awry — or actually work, depending on your perspective
a vengeful witch conjured to give our brave heroes the secrets they need to survive
various uses of creative torture mechanisms

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Hint, this guy is not actually really surprised. Well maybe he was before he was gouged to death.

Now, Susan, you say, you said you don’t like “torture porn” but this movie has a bunch of torture as the plot. Yes, my questioning, cynical friend, you are right to ask. However, it is imaginative torture that is key to the plot.

Such plot being that the young man in the flute-soundtracked flight to Europe above is the great grandson of Baron Blood — actually a nobleman who owned this castle generations ago, where he tortured and killed many villagers. Robert, and Eva (Elke), decide to go read a family-owned incantation in the castle that will bring this upper class charmer back to life, bad host aside.  Of course they think this is just a funny experiment. But you can see where this is going! In the meantime, Eva is part of the historical staff attempting to renovate the castle for tourism purposes. Who doesn’t love history?

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Eva delighted to find out the castle does, in fact, have a finished basement, along with a en suite Iron Maiden and torture rack for guests to stay fit and trim.

There are some plot twists that I shant reveal because I KNOW  you are all dropping what you are doing and running out to watch it.

This is one of the most influential horror movies of my childhood — and a great memory to share with my aunt, who at this moment is I’m sure so thrilled I am sharing her questionable taste in cinema with the three people who might read this.

How can you watch? It is apparently available on Amazon. Maybe you’ll find it somewhere on television some late night. Especially in October. Or, hey, maybe take a look at YouTube. You just never know when some friendly horror fan has downloaded the entire thing. It’s possible. Just saying.

I look forward to sharing my other ridiculous and not-so-ridiculous choices for October. In the meantime, my friendly advice is don’t read the incantation at midnight in the bell tower.

Nothing good ever comes of it — other than maybe a horror movie.

p.s. Disclaimer: In my recent internet searches I’m aware Baron Blood is apparently a comic book figure of some regularity and fame. I did not touch upon that because comics are 100% not my department of expertise.