I’d been sitting in the living room of my townhouse for the past two hours alternately staring at, “Untitled, by Paul Dayton” on my computer monitor and looking out the window at a seductive summer day. The editor of a speculative fiction anthology liked my work and wanted a piece from me. I needed something worthy; the deadline was uncomfortably close.
My doorbell rang.
Click, click. I lock my daughter and myself in the master bedroom, like secrets hidden within a diary.
Every Friday night, since the mistress interloped, I spread beach towels and picnic fare on the master bed for my daughter and me. Afterwards, she and I talk and talk, until she falls asleep among the smells and debris of the evening’s feast.
“Thank you, Deirdre,” cut in Michael Guy Alright smoothly, “and now I’d like to introduce our next guest… one of the most influential thinkers of our time. Sir, this is indeed an honor. Please put your hands together to welcome… Six-Pak Chopra!”
The audience exploded in cacophonous approval.
It was pleasant under the patio with the roof extended to shade us from the sun and a trickling fountain on the wall at the northern end. The six of us sat at the places I had laid around the rubber wood dining table. A peach coloured cloth covered it, protection from grubby fingers, slopped food, spilt drinks, and horror of horrors—live cigarette ashes!
I once had this friend, Jenny, who lived in a little trailer out past the ridge. It was a good place, secluded, and I spent many evenings there with her, drinking whiskey and shooting at beer cans in the dark. We were doing just that one night, when she finally asked me about it.
Miles Barnett gritted his teeth at the sight of Emmanuel DeRusso, clad in a tee shirt with four Indians on horseback holding rifles: Homeland Security, Fighting Terrorism Since 1492. DeRusso was entertaining a group of his admirers on the stage of the lecture hall where he had chosen to defend his dissertation. Who else would wear a tee shirt to his dissertation defense? What kind of arrogant bastard would invite all of his friends to attend?
I’m walking home with Lost Signal under my arm from a rejection that is the crown jewel of all my rejections. I only made it five steps into the art director’s office before he practically threw me back out. Last week I managed eight steps. Huge clouds threaten rain, and I’m tempted to use the canvas for cover, but pity for it forces me to run beneath awnings with the painting tight against my sweater, protecting it from the approaching storm.
