Normandie Lounge

Conflagration of Matter by Lyle

It wasn't the darkness so much as the darkness of the mahogany, the rustic oriental rugs, their patterns mashed together in a glowering silence. It wasn't so much the shock of light from between the heavily pleated curtains than the texture of the heavily pleated curtains, warm and matted like the fur of a feral bear (such imposition on light). It wasn’t so much the how as it was the why and the when. When and where most importantly. That particular day in that particular place. The rug, the curtains, the imposing desk. The imposing desk. The imposition of it all. Who had been behind that desk just a moment before? What would they possibly have been doing there? Were they hunched over work, their own shadow suppurating, oozing over the flitting shimmer of a fountain pen? Mere flights of fancy, flickering opulence, compared to the weight of the desk, the curtains, the rug (if there had indeed been anyone and their ideas there).

It was not the clarity of the glass so much as it was the opacity of death, the child ablaze amidst such reflection. The wisp of smoke that cannot be held.

***

Normandie by Forrest

In a day and a night I drank myself into sleep, into a room without light. In this room was you, I hope. In you may have been the winter I look for. When it is winter I always find myself at this hotel, and I am always meeting someone at the lounge since I resemble a business. A winter is an enjoyable thing when one has a drink with it; but then I must be meeting someone, even if nobody is business as well. A winter drink is more enjoyable with you whom I know and not her, whom I know less. With her it is admiring the black marble bar with its strong latitude, and it finding her fingers away from the drink. With you I see your fingers are curling into the snow winter leaves for the last person remaining. The lack of sameness is not disturbing to any of us should we all happen to lounge here at once. We have not been formally acquainted with each other’s experiences, and this hotel is slowing. I know this drink. The vintage where never enough must be my winter.

***

Applicable and Dark by Alan

He lived in some poet’s home outside of Brookmere. It was a museum in fact. A national historic site. And he was looking for a roommate.

A curtain is a kind of collapse of the soul. Because exhaustion, unlike a season of Birch and precipitation, clings like a muted flame in encasement, he’d wait everyday by the window whispering the name. The tall stranger he’d met at the landing. He had told him about his library and left an address.

A world of lettres might never be the same if only…this type of thing through a window of the heart. The heart a pulsing but too often quiet room. Repose, another country.

***

Agnes Martin, 1994, Taos, NM by Johanna

One day the snow fell six inches deep and the world was blanketed in white. Dog crap and mud puddles disappeared beneath the soft crystal winter fleece. The dilapidated mobile home next door and the abandoned Chrysler at the end of the road glittered, disguised in a serene mound of white and light. Wilting flowers, crackling grasses, dried out weeds, now powder blossoms and fluffy cloud sprouts. The world let out a sigh, ugly had been banished.

Agnes answered a phone call from a friend telling her that she missed her and, as she watched the snow falling outside, everything appeared perfect, pure and clear.

After that, Agnes painted white, everything white, perfect lucid canvases of white stripes on white. She painted into the spring and when summer came, she rested, the flowers and their wild decadence making a mockery of her peace.

Metal Tree

Heavy Metal by Alan

The dude dug the stuff so hard that he lived it, man. He was totally and completely in it, like full on. Sucked into the vortex, bro. Heavy metal kid. That’s what they called him. He lived right over there. There’s his yard. That’s the Pacer his parents got him. First car. There’s where he first split his head open. There’s where he lit fireworks off of Esty’s ass. And there. That’s the tree. It’s rad, bro. Never seen nothing like it before. His parents flipped when they woke up to it one morning. Like Jack and the Beanstalk, dude, only totally metal. The story is he totally climbed it, and people haven’t seen him since. He had his headphones on, someone said, and this weird psyched look on his face. In the zone. Feelin’ it. Taking off, man. He just took off. He lived the dream, dude. That shit was like a dream, man. Shit, I’d go, if I didn’t have work and shit. You know. Whatever. Fucker is probably hard to climb anyway.

---

Colloidal Silver by Johanna

1. The liquid silver came in like the tide, slow enough to go unnoticed except for the shifting boundary of shore line or, in this case, forest line. 
2. The forest had been dying from the beetles and blue stain fungus long before the wave of silver splashed against its conifers. With no known cure, the people in the village below could only watch as each year more and more trees browned from beetles furrowing beneath the bark. 
3. The Pine Beetle used to be an important part of the bio-system, killing off dying trees to make room for new growth. With warmer winters, they had become a nuisance, sticking around longer than necessary, feeding off healthy trees. 
4. Even still, it was the instinct of the villagers to try to save the already dying forest from being completely coated in a film of silver. How would the plants and animals survive without nuts and berries, flowers and chlorophyll?
5. But how do you clean trees of liquid silver? The elders suggested baking soda which was good at cleaning most anything, but no matter how much they scrubbed the silver trees, the liquid only mutated, shifting beneath their brushes so that when they were not touching it, it returned to the space it previously filled.
6. The villagers, exasperated and hopeless, could not deny that there was something beautiful about the way the pink light reflected off mirrored bark at sunset and the swishing noise their boots made when they walked through it.
7. What could they do? They decided to start marketing their town as a tourist attraction. Come see Silver Forest. Be enchanted by Silver Forest. See yourself in Silver Forest.
8. But soon they noticed, just as fast as the silver came in, it began to ebb out until it had run down the mountainside, into the river and was gone before scientists even had a chance to speculate where it had come from.
9. It must have come from the mountains like a spring welling up from deep within the earth. Silver ore must have heated up within the core or while suspended over an underground lava flow. All interesting theories.
10. Weeks later, the villagers and scientists alike noticed something else. The blue stain fungus and the beetles had disappeared completely. The silver worked like an antiseptic and cured the trees. Even those dying recovered. 
11. It was a miracle. 

---

Flash by Lyle

Such an ERECTION!                 Ahhh —
           
                                   skyward. Rise. Tear at the sky. Rend at the pornographic clouds until they are mere misty tatters that fall to the ground in sprinkles. Gouge at the moon like metal capillaries. Sparkle in the sky like...

Sparkle? Shine? Contract. Such a tumescence… petrified? putrified? Into... metal? And now has divided and split in multiplicity, the opposite vacuity of earthquakes. And I am buried in the ground. Now I see that the clouds are much, much higher than I supposed. The blood is all gone from my brain and I sink farther into the ground under the weight. Until there is nothing left of me. Nothing left of me. Me.

---

Walden Revisited by Forrest

Should one take Nature too hard on the surface of things signalled, the grotesque he wrote of while frightened of babies, would it reflect back in synapses, in the varnish of entrails or embryonic fluids? I think it would grow instead from the “I” I have desposited here, in you; and now seeing yourself extend back into empty skies, part and particle, you understand what I could not while settling into my notes, waiting to write something you will never see me in—a house, for instance.

Doll

Photo © & courtesy of Darren Bokor 

Sometime Doll by Forrest


Doll. A doll. A doll face. Not a doll face. Sometimes not a doll face. Sometimes not a doll face looking. Sometimes not a doll face looking around. Not a doll face looking around. Not a face looking around. Not a face around. Not a face. A face. Face. 

*** 

Her Best Ought to be Good Enough by Bill 

On the road the excuses are genuinely a terrible bother to crunch, the gravel kicking up around your arms, eyes squinting in the sun but it is mostly all the same brand of story, which some would call a lie, and others a framing of the reference. Blame both of them for where they come from or just let them be. There wasn’t anyone here immediately before us but there are bones around, so keep it and hold and press it to yourself like a child. 

Are one’s battles are best left waiting? Tell them to meet you in a diner while you go out to a bar across town? Is it better not to fight if it means you’ll never lose, or will it happen whether you’d wish it or not. Weave. Wove. Wow, wonders all over again stretched across your skin, tables out in the nighttime with all our sky overhead. 

Splinter post breakups, hard edges for the hardliners hardheaded holdouts for the dawn. Fait accompli. 

The old man with the dead star for an eye, and the old woman with a train that circled inside of her mouth across from you on the subway. Outside again in the rain letting it fall around and upon you watching a young girl wrapped in only a green sari spin in the middle of the sidewalk with arms outstretched into the storm as the silk clung to her body, alight in her dizzy trance feeling the world wind away, she the mainspring revolving away the tension of the planet, taking the tension off of gravity, baba yaga in the younger aspect atop the spinning dreidel of the forest spirit. Signs and wonders watching young parents stare wide eyed through an infant. 

Save the cat. Please. At the very least, save the cat. 

*** 

The Interview by Alan 

When something looks manipulated in that early 21st century way, he tends to suffer a simultaneous sense of disbelief mixed with terrific delight. “I think it’s the juxtaposition of things or, what did they use to call it, the ‘layer’ on top of ‘layers’?” he asked me when I interviewed him not long ago. There was an element of mischief in his voice. The ball had already been set in motion. He was all over the feeds. Not because of the fire. Not because of the dumpsters/junkyards/abandoned domiciles. Humans were interested because he actually worked with the physical: dolls, bottles, iron…grass even. Here was an artist not interested in the virtual but rather with actuality. Things over ideas. Or the ideas in things. “There used to be many of us,” he said. “I have outlived them all.” He was 27. This is only one of the things from our conversation that resonates when I look at the image of his work today. 

*** 

Airhead by Johanna

Puffs of stuffing fell out of holes in my seams before my cold skin hardened slowly like chocolate shell. My brain went all googly like my eyes when I had eyes to see – the slow lopsided shudder, the black speckled blue of my iris suspended in plastic glass. I prefer it this way, truly. Empty-headed can be so refreshing, except for the eerie sense that I am forgetting something. 

I remember certain things – lollipops, shade trees, spiders, writing with pencils, dog kisses, swinging until my toes touched the sky, the smell of blue nail polish and black markers, a photograph of the sea, the windows rolled down in the car, someone telling me I'm pretty. Pretty doll. Now, I am nobody's baby. I don't know what fault brought me to this wasted lot, strewn amongst the trash, translucent and perched on the neck of a milk jug #2, but I prefer it this way, truly. Empty-headed can be so refreshing. 

*** 

Baby Bottle, Baby Bottle --- Cracked My Head on a Rusty Can by Lyle 

And now I think I'm delirious. Crazy as all hell. I can feel that rust creeping into my blood. Oxidizing the iron in my blood. I feel strong for just a minute but I'm not so sure that it has anything to do with the oxidation process. Probably more to do with the wound in my head. Perhaps this is what the trepannated feel. Liberation and then emptiness.

Ex-Prez

Photo © & courtesy of Nicole Provencher

Road Dream by Nicole Provencher

I am driving through the desert. It is hot and the cotton fabric from my t-shirt is wet and wadded against the small of my back. In the seat next to me my husband rests his elbow on the ledge of the car window. He is grinding his teeth and refusing to look in my direction. We left all conversation somewhere between Nevada and this stretch of highway 50. The strangeness of our silence blends with the images blurring past my driver’s window. I see a fifteen foot tall wooden nickel half fallen into the sand, 1,000 shoes perched in the branches of a tree, a gnarled buzzard ripping the entrails from something once warm and covered with fur, and finally a trio of high school boys pissing on a curb.

The gas station looks passable. We need directions. I watch his face in the passenger side mirror. We sit in the car for a full minute before he acknowledges me in the reflection and fumbles with the door handle to exit the car. He walks toward the door of the gas station and stretch my legs, rolling my ankles back and forth as they pop. In my rearview I see trio of boys walking into the lot. One of the boys raises his chin in the direction of the store. The others quicken their pace.

They catch him as he is coming out. The first boy pushes him up into a wall. The drink in his hand appears to float before falling, creating liquid branches in the sand at his feet. The second boy shoves a palm into the back of his head, catching hair in a fist and snapping his head back. He rolls my husband chest first into the wall and presses his neck against the rough seams of the brick. I watch and cannot move. The backs of my legs itch against the vinyl of the seat. I hear only one sound when the third boy moves something into his side and moves the body to the ground. The boys run into the desert. They disappear into the sun.

Later I would dream of the same stretches of road. A fifteen-foot tall nickel, shoes rocking in the wind, the gnarled buzzard, three boys, and what could have been, but was not quite, a sound.

&&&

Republican America by Lyle

Mother ballooned up in the summer 1987. Reagan stepped up the war on drugs in 1986 making mandatory minimum sentencing for drug offences. I don’t mean ballooned figuratively. Father, a good ole boy to be sure, had “accidentally,” as the story goes from the rather one-sided perspective, jabbed her with a some kind of needle connected to a tank of helium. What were they doing with helium? The prisons were filling up with people arrested on drug-related charges. Many were non-violent offenders. That’s the story my father told to his sheriff buddy: “I tripped with the thing in my hand and... it just happened so fast.” Reagan was in office for eight years. My father never shed a tear and neither did I, always the obedient son: inculcated, indoctrinated, inseminated. My father still tells the story of his wife, the Democrat, and the canister of helium. Kaboom, he says.There’s never a dry eye in the house.

&&&

Preside by Forrest Roth

They kept the stockyard of American Presidents forever full, lined by barbed wire, under lock and key. From a distance you could still see Reagan first, then Kennedy, then Washington and FDR and others jostling for favorable position, then a hidden assortment of the better-knowns, the lesser-knowns, the mostly forgotten, the terminally mediocre, and the non-existent. Was McKinley despondent because everyone wept for Lincoln in a theater while he was merely killed on a promenade in Buffalo? Could Carter dream of toppling the Ayatollah in Tehran with a gung-ho squad of Navy SEALs? Did Nixon wish he had Teddy’s big stick during the lonely hours of evening? Would William Henry Harrison ever find himself? When we cared to write our papers about them, our teachers had told us, “Stand there. Be in their presence. The topics will come through the chain-link fence.” And so they did, but we felt the need to shower instead before returning to class empty-handed. We were academic failures and miscreants. Disrespectful. Unworthy. But the American Presidents were all out there, we protested without success, awaiting the casual visit of our flashlights. We could be students of the ceaseless yet.

&&&

Over It, With or Without by Bill

Isn’t that made to wonder, with awe set to scale growing as the proportions strain out, leaving a viscous paste on the bottom on the bowl. I won’t get inside of your head. I don’t want to take anything away from this, using the puddles at your feet to wash clean my short term memory so I never have to think about it because you are getting too good at this and I need to live, which i can’t do with that awareness taking up the floor of my brain’s living room. You’ve already set fire to one bookshelf in there and flipped over my desk. I’m pretty sure you’ve been reading my signed comics, since there are smudges on the bags and the tape is torn. Time meant never having enough furniture. No, it didn’t actually mean that, how could it? Where would time put a chaise lounge? How many crystal punch-bowls could you possibly hope to keep track of once you start storing them in extinction event limestone cave bunkers?

Madness is a brain full of hope, saturated by blindly impotent will and encased in a rose-colored case sitting atop an ivory pedestal in front of a waterfall. Upstream is a missile plant and the turtles are so full of PCBs they have to be declared toxic waste sites. That tingling you feel when you bath in the pool isn’t a mystical healing solution so much as hydrochloric acid. All of your turbines are coated in soot and all of your tears have more sodium dioxide in them than saline.

The future to you is essentially a sandwich. It’s lunch. It’s being caught up in the middle of the day and not wanting to make much of a fuss so you slap a couple pieces of bread around someone’s dreams, spread a little of their past around it, and dip in a soup you had made from their ambitions and the sweat of their brow. You leave half the sandwich uneaten and wait until it has grown stale before you throw it out. When the cleaning lady comes in to empty the trash you grope her, and slap her across the mouth because you thought she looked at your shoes, then you settle back down in the fine leather chair behind the desk and get back to work.

&&&

The Head and the Fence by Alan

The head rose above the fence in broad daylight, and it was (not only for this particular head but also for all the heads like it in its general vicinity) a kind of daylight that might make a person cry for, indeed, these heads had not seen daylight for quite a long while. No. These heads had not suffered capital punishment but rather punishment for the capital and of the capital, and for this reason, these heads were special heads. And for this reason, quite a long time is a relative statement understood only by a person (or a head) on a certain side of the fence.

Niccolo Athens :: Piano Trio

This month we decided to do something a little different. We used a short musical piece on which to base our stories. It's a piano trio by the talented, young Niccolo Athens.

Niccolo Athens :: Piano Trio

Reminisce by Johanna

She stepped onto the train and into the future, but her past refused to join her. She tried to coax her past forward with promises of success and spiritual growth, but the past refused, rooting herself in youth. She progressed with the future, establishing a stable marriage, two kids and a lucrative career. But in the past, she still worked as a barista at the coffee shop on Capitol Hill. Though her future self had broken up with that drunken tattoo artist years ago, her past gave him another chance, and when it looked unlikely to succeed, she wove him with fantastical merit. He became more handsome, intelligent, kind and adventurous until her future self began to wonder if she had made an awful mistake breaking up with him.

The past built a house of animal bones and peacock feathers and wove clothes of rainbow silk that she harvested from her worms. She made mulberry wine and sold it for gold. In the future, she could only reminisce, full of regret for the life she could have had.

One day, very much in the present, she called the past to a meeting, hoping to reconnect, but the past appeared more ragged than she remembered, more plain. The past was settling in around her. Their chairs hard and their coffee cold and bitter. She soon lost interest in this unlikely self, disappointed that she was no more than who she was.

&&&

Wisteria by Lyle

The wisteria vines outside my window on the second floor snarl and explode in the scent of purple. It is late spring and already hot but I have my window open because I can hear the buzz of bees that way. The sun warms my face, the beginnings of sweat beading on my forehead; I have pulled the chair up to the window, my knees against the wall, my hands on the window sill, rough, cracking paint against the softness of the palms of my hands, which tingle just so from only now having washed my coffee cup, my bowl, the hot water and abrasion of steel wool. My day is over. My day is just beginning. Light glow of orange, an umber perhaps, from the beams against my eyelids always closed. Suddenly the sharp chirp of a cardinal and everything goes stunningly silent. The heat is gone and I am divested of myself.

&&&

The Other by Forrest

Let’s give me a taste. Let’s give me in, he would say. There were other ways saying this he would not say, but it was too late. She had tasted him. She had given him in. And instead of something she would not say in return, there was another taste letting her give her a him he would say in the other ways.

&&&

Nickel Time by Bill

We live in a strange world made stranger by our memories. Time spits chance out of its memory, gravity dragged along and stretched too thin or compressed too high. Gravitational equations map to boring curves until you pull a dense magnetic field upon them. Music dropping you below the map inside of your mind, down into the caves hiding shiftships and an armory of weapons fashioned from the bones of gods while open windows on the world tell you more than you need to know about your neighbors and the earbuds you bought because they were cheap buzz buzz buzz letting you stay aware of your station.

&&&

Your Scene by Alan

There are curtains in this scene that fall extemporaneously over windows pulsing with light. Outside there’s a sidewalk, a patch of grass, and yards of street. There’s a child on a bicycle. When you get a closer look, you’re relieved to find that you don’t know him.

You decide to step outside into the weather and almost feel like you forgot something. But rather than turn around, you go forward without further hesitation. This decision might be informed by the fact that you feel the pressure of a time frame.

Some kind of desperate longing hums inside you. It’s the fear of conflict raising its ugly head again. You’ve been through this. You always do everything to avoid it, want everyone to like you to a certain extent because you like everyone. You really want to. But you know that may seem an artifice in a way to others and perhaps even to yourself.

The child is gone but there are lawns. You continue to not look back, but it’s difficult. In the middle of this thing now, you can only attempt to shape it. Make a statement. Something like, “I wish I could get over this,” or “How did I get here?” But again, nothing comes out. The morning or afternoon can be any morning or afternoon and your suffering any and all suffering.

Don’t look back. This is the beginning of adulthood. You can title it “Growing Up” or you can wish it never existed. Why is everything so stately and robust and so full of whispers? The whispers, you think, yes, that’s it. Go to the whispers. They will tell you that the others aren’t talking about you. They’re talking about justice and what’s right and what’s wrong and that when you take a stand some people may get hurt. And so, this is what hurt looks like. It makes other people hurt and writhe and twist and incessantly wander the outside.

This conversation you’re having in your head is not always good for you. Today, sure fine. But tomorrow. The next day. When will it end? When you step back inside yourself, a home? But what will be there if not emptiness and despair? Despair. Such a 19th century word.

---

Check out Et in Arcadia Ego, another wonderful musical piece by Niccolo Athens, and an article (including a short interview) from WNET New York Public Media about a composition. He also has a new website.

Winged

Super Frog by Alan

Super Frog ducks the angels. He doesn’t have time for that kind of stuff. Sure, they spy on him with their holy surveillance mechanisms, but Super Frog doesn’t pay them no mind. His missive is to fight crime. Evildoers beware. S is for Save. F is for freedom. In the dark alleys. In the moral ambiguities. In the in between. That’s where Super Frog lives. Wherever there is injustice, you will find him. Wherever there is suffering, he’ll be there. Wherever liberty is threatened, you will find…Super Frog.

&&& 

Francisco by Johanna

The desert rains came hard and fast that spring, a sudden rush of precipitation that flooded cracked wash basins and resurrected arroyos in one day. The Salton Sea splashed over the lip of dykes and sent the salty farm chemical waters into the Borrego. With it, tiny tadpole spawns that knew nothing beyond murky puddles, dripped into the arid back-country where they settled in the shallow indentation of an old pack rat's hole. There amongst the shiny things – a sequin from a baby shoe, a chip of abalone, a vending machine ring – only one tadpole survived the evaporation of lengthening days. Not merely survived, but evolved as if the universe depended on such things. There is no way to know for sure if that frog realized it was different from any other. He had no parents, no mentors, no examples, only an urge. But the first day that frog spread his reptilian wings and took flight, it rescued a coyote from a rattlesnake advance and Francisco the Super Frog was born.

&&& 

I Spy with My Little Eye Something that Is Gold by Lyle

A bell, he responded. Around that flying toad. Dumbass.

&&& 

Tunnel by Forrest

My son and the milk carton viewfinder. These two were never meant to be separated. Because the kid won’t let go of it—that is, he won’t let me wash his head during bathtime out of fear of loosening the duct tape around his head. He sleeps with it on. He goes to school with it on. He eats meals with attempted precision of fork-to-mouth. But, of course, I’m more than welcome to navigate him through our home while his peripheral vision has been completely negaged.

I’ve reached the point where I want to confess to him, “We never talk anymore.”

I’ve reached the point where I want to call her and say, “Look, our son has given over his life to a milk carton viewfinder—what do I do here?” And probably she’ll only say, “Your problem.” And unlikely she’ll say, “Therapy.” Though most assuredly she’ll say, “Your problem, and you’re welcome to it.” She knows my feelings often succumb to the occasional validation.

“Your mother says you’ll go blind with that thing on,” is what I want to say to him instead. To instill a slight fear. Then again, he may already be blind. I can’t tell what’s going on in there. 

I put up some crazy-looking paper mache flying frog in the living room, an Indonesian clearance item from the World Market. I want to test a theory. The kid parks himself underneath and trains the viewfinder on it. Stays there for hours on end. I go to bed before him that night, and he’s still there in the morning, sitting cross-legged in perfect contemplation of the object.

“What do you think of the frog?” I ask him while looking up from my cereal. “I might get rid of it—looks too silly up there.”

He gets up awkwardly. A moment to stretch his legs. He swings the viewfinder at me with my spoon suspended in mid-air, and I, unable to take a bite with him watching, search for anything moving about all the way at the end that will let me move again.

&&& 

AMP'D by Bill

The seas dark and reminding the mirrors of the great old ones slumbering. Back is forth, hands circle light inscribing fourth walls all falling down. It’s so relieving in the seattle scene, off and odd then off and on and off again working in a factory making coal-fired political pottery. The call for the ticket, dropped into the fish tank outside to hide from the sharks. The trains are lonely; three back of the line in a bad order - an incontinent old man leading off. The loss is in the heart and the mind seeks out the phrases and the hymns that cast down the eyes.

The street with the soundtrack of life in the ear, tiny little spheres of the future wedged into ears granting mood and atmosphere, but only ever reflecting what is and what was sacrificed, cut from the core, carved from the heart, leaving the scarred wings and the gnawed legs on the plate instead of taking them home for the dog.

Red Room

Orange & Yellow by Forrest

There was a room something like a room so very red she stayed in wanting to read in, and in there, somewhere, as what could be seen through the window, she read as if the something like a room had two windows overlapping the first and foremost, not seeing the person watching her reading as if she were reading, as if she were in a room otherwise so very orange, until the person not seeing any reading now saw the yellow cloud above her head, above something like a fine litter of pages from her wanting hand.

***

Deployed Upon that Plain by Bill

Rooms smell of the body in repose, in response, in rage and blithering delirium. Rooms smell like the tiniest portion of blood a cutter allows to spill. Smelling like cheap beer sweat, recovery sports drink, and greasy chinese food. Waste basket basketball played without a round-rimmed receptacle, just kind of tossing shit where for and letting it be two points. Eyes red from lack of sleep or herbal infusion camouflaged in a blood meridian wash across the glass. The creaking of bodies stiff jointed with blood clotting in the lower portions of their legs, bodies in heat and who puts a giant pane of glass up in a space clearly designed to allow for frustrated spontaneous carnality? Still, ghosts of gratuitous grunts and groans still linger have no doubt, joining dull head-to-desk thumps over consideration of early colonial American alcohol consumption and the quadrahedrial crystal lattice structure of silicates. The sound believes itself being spoken into existence, buffets the wall of dead air channeled soundproof construction and dies. Redrum of sound. Red room where sound goes to die. The Reading Room.

***

Reading Room (A Short Novella in 5 Acts) by Alan 

“The third person is inherently limited because…well, indeed, it is a small room.” Professor Lufowski paused as if to soak in the thought.

Randall shifted his way through the garden outside the library strategically overstepping the newly-planted begonias but not without the suggestion of mass extermination Godzilla-style.

Midnight on campus. Where else could they make out and anything that follows?

Nabokov dazzled Helena, and she in turned dazzled all that spied her, reading Lolita, alone (hardly), in the bookstore, across the street.

The questions grew larger (like a flock of birds or a plane getting closer) before they broke off (like the necklace around Si’s neck) and were lost to her (but not to someone else) for approximately 5 years until they circled back and were found and were, subsequently, lost again.

***

Red Room by Johanna

R stared at the door to the room. She could see the red light shining from behind the window shade. She was waiting for her husband. He had entered the room an hour ago to fill a prescription for anti-fungal cream. Her mother exited the room. She nodded at R. R watched her leave down the long hallway. Still no sign of her husband. Her brother exited the room. He stopped to ask her what she was doing there. “I'm waiting for J,” she answered. “Oh,” he responded and exited down the long hallway. Her sister walked out of the room. R asked her what she was doing there, “I went for a run,” she said, “I needed some exercise.” “Oh,” R said. Her sister left down the hall, sneakers squeaking against the vinyl tile. R checked her watch. Her son walked out of the room. “I didn't know you were here,” R said.

“I had to take an algebra test,” he answered.

“How did you do?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Good.”

She watched him bob down the long hall, books under his arm. She began to feel hot. Sweat dripped down the back of her knees. She tapped her heel on the floor to calm herself but it only made her feel more anxious. She stood and stared at the door. “Where is he?” she asked the door. “How should I know?” it answered. “That's it,” she said, “I'm going in.” R opened the door to the red room and went in.

***

Dimensions (by Lyle)

Red reading room: 6’x5‘x10’.

300 cubic feet mostly of air but also including a desk, a very shallow shelf, two chairs, my orange juice, my papers laid out in order on the desk and me (this room is filled with my thoughts — it is the perfect size for that). There is also a plaque that reads

Dimensions

Red reading room: 6’x5‘x10’...