The Boy Scout - A short story by David Ohle

The boy scout guides his wooden pedal car up the dirt road and parks it, in the shade of my turkey oak, without ceremony. The little car has tin-can headlights and a false grille. He approaches the steps and begins to climb, a box of rice cookies under one of his frail arms. It is a mystery how he crossed the bottoms in this handmade vehicle, how he avoided sinking in the soft mud ruts and being stung by the wasps in the sumac along the ditch-bank. Twice the boy scout drops the box of cookies, backsteps to the ground, recovers it, and climbs up again. He knocks gently, the sound is as though his knuckles are made of hard rubber. I open the door and allow him in. He sits on the sofa with yellow eyes and looks at my feet and says nothing. I offer him a bowl of soy soup, which he declines, casting his glances on the floor. His face is ageless and simple, with precocious whiskers on the jaw.

I build an oak fire in the woodstove and he warms his hands against the evening chill setting in. In the firelight I first become aware of the suggestion of a seam running down the front of him, over the nose from the khaki tip of the hat, across the lips and chin, into the neckerchief. He seems in the odd light to have been stitched together out of two unmatched bolts of cloth. His eyes are like coat buttons, the fists like ripe tomatoes. He smells of sodden laundry. Crickets bump against the tower window screens. The stink of pinesap and legustrum. The clack of crows in the sky.

I take a cold chicken wing from the refrigerator and offer it to him. His head pivots, the lips emerge tubelike from the face. He says no. At least he has finally spoken. We don’t want to sit here too long on the brink of conversation, like wax figures behind plexiglas. Coffee? Does he want coffee? Cola? I move around the living room mechanically, under an odd influence from this boy scout, as though he were a planet and I his satellite, he earth and I moon. Threads of black yarn drape his forehead under the scout hat, a mockery of hair. He has a sewn-on eyebrow above one eye and nothing above the other one, and a faded disk of scar on the chin. I talk about the weather and he listens without comment.

I ask him about a point of scout lore, and although his mouth opens and the dry tongue quivers, he says nothing. When he moves, which he seldom does, there is a faintly audible rasp, as though his joints are dry of lubricant. I ask him if I might sample one of his cookies. He indicates no. I have to buy or not buy without tasting. I give him the required amount in National coupons. I eat one of the cookies, which have no taste and little consistency. I remember myself as a boy scout, driving my pedal car intricately through alleyways in the city, eating bruised fruit when I found it at the backs of government markets. In the rear compartment of the pedal car I kept a change of khakis and extra shoes. If night came on me I’d throw out my bag and sleep wherever I was. I’ve seen tumbleweed, or something similar, blowing past the house recently. A wild pig comes every night and snufiles around for any garbage I might throw down. I consider dropping something heavy on him from the roof, breaking the spine, dressing him out, cooking him over a fire pit. The boy scout has been here several days now. I’ve noticed a spider’s thread from his shoulder to the windowsill. Two days ago he began an extended smile which has not yet broken. When the wind occasionally blows outside, the shiplap siding of the house gets to wailing in a high-pitched tone. The wind sock is full to the south, the awnings flapping. The fire in the stove belly has died hours ago, the sun’s last yellow angle is narrowing on the tower walls. The old clock is ticking on the mantel. The evening wears on. I rebuild the fire as the night cools and wear my flannel robe and long johns. Before dawn I see an orange light in the pines, someone walking with a lamp, Morning again.

An icicle has formed where the bathroom faucet dripped. The sun has come up in a haze. The boy scout is sleeping on the sofa.

The wind sock is deflated and the day is warming up toward noon.

By mid-afternoon I am perspiring in the humidity, wiping myself with a handkerchief. The boy scout remains dry and still.

A slow drizzle now, hanging on three days. On the fourth day I see an egg of sun above the tree line. A katydid is dead at the bottom of my teacup. Overnight the weather turns cold again, and the drizzle becomes a wet snow. My mouth is sour, my toothbrush worn down to the plastic. It will be nice to chew salty pork meat, sometime, whenever I can kill the pig. I should raise the awnings before the snow collects and breaks through the rotted canvas.

The wind sock is frozen stiff, pointing south. I see the pig outside, standing in the white. He pisses and leaves a yellow circle on the snow crust. The pedal car is gone, tracks of the wooden wheels leading off down the road. The awnings are frozen and won’t go up.

(Biblioklept)

Adult Swim By Corey Van Landingham

Let them eat corn dogs. Let them
peel from its sack a freezer-burnt popsicle,
lime, green as an alien gem.

Let them pluck from the strung garland of chips

Sugaring their lips with the fine grit
of Sour Patch Kids, these strange children
lift to their mouths those soft little bodies
and chew. They forget, for just a moment, the water
from which they’ve been banished.
Then a pause in the guard station’s country radio—
they pirouette back and begin,

again, to sulk. Gawk. Let them.

It’s nearly time to reclaim
their pool. Each day, each hour,
they have dragged their soaking bodies
from its coolness and allowed their mothers
the reapplication of lotion and the petting
of their wet, tender heads.

No agony is greater
than theirs. Never have I felt so powerful.
Aren’t I magnificent,
floating on my back dead center? Aren’t I
a kingdom of one?
I could grow new gods.
Small princes.

(My grandmother’s voice—if you own nothing,
you are nothing—as she handed me, at Christmas,
a fresh certificate of stock. But she was an unhappy woman
and is dead.)

A whinny of pain
from a skinned knee, quick flash
of white before the blood. Not my wound
to treat. Another boy explaining to his mother’s magazine
how every day, every single day,
God puts out the sun by dunking it in the ocean.
Like a match dropped
into a glass.

Where does the next one come from,
he wants to know.

One up to his thighs already
until the strict whistle, the chorus
of booing beside him,
a leap back.
Lined on the plastic rim, the boys stare differently
than the men they will become.

Where are the wild things?

The boy worries.
Who promises tomorrows to a whole needful planet,
restrikes that match?

Who bears that next fiery sphere?

Who will remind this woman
she’s not some queen
acquiring a country estate—ruby brooches, oiled leaves
of topiaries glistening in midday sun—
while the real rural citizens starve. Fountains
upon fountains and a small pond
to reflect back her dais. Crystal plates
of petit fours. For which,
history admonishes, she was beheaded.

Source

(Corey Van Landingham is the author of “Antidote” and “Love Letter to Who Owns the Heavens.” )

A Whole Civilization Will Die Tonight

 

More than 100 writers quit French publisher in protest against rightwing owner

In an unprecedented walkout, dozens of writers including the acclaimed punk feminist novelist Virginie Despentes and the philosopher Bernard-Henri Lévy, signed an open letter against Bolloré, 74, who is close to far-right figures.

“We refuse to be hostages in an ideological war that seeks to impose authoritarianism everywhere in culture and the media,” they wrote. “We don’t want our ideas, our work, to be his property.”

Read more: The Guardian

The Lost Girls of Rome by Donato Carrisi

This novel is set in Rome and translated by Howard Curtis. Sandra Vega, a forensic photographer with the Roman police department, receives news that her journalist husband has died accidentally but there is something about the circumstances surrounding his death that does not ring true to her. She decides to delve deeper in order to solve what she believes to be his murder and her investigation takes her down a very dark path. She learns about the penitenzieri, a group of priest-profilers which has historically compiled archives of the most heinous sins, particularly in the late Middle Ages (1410–1503). The story takes labyrinthine turns and has many subplots including an ongoing missing persons investigation. Sandra crosses paths with a mysterious duo, Clemente and Marcus, who are also involved in the case of the girl who has disappeared. Their incredible skill at uncovering clues makes us wonder who they are. It’s a complex plot with many characters and I found it necessary to reread various sections in order to follow the storyline but it was worth hanging in. There is apparently a sequel featuring the same characters, titled The Hunter of the Dark, that I would be interested in reading. 

Dear Monica Lewinsky

Penguin Random House audio from DEAR MONICA LEWINSKY by Julia Langbein, read by Alex Sarrigeorgiou. A wise, funny, and wildly original examination of female desire and the price women pay for giving in to their appetites.

Shelley Winters - A Poem by Tim Dlugos

Shelley Winters

Shelley Winters you’re such a pig I love you

Not “even though” you’re ugly and never shut up

      and dress like the wife of a cabbie who won

      the Lottery, but because of it!

I think you’re a miserable actress, and didn’t

      even care when you drowned in The Poseidon

      Adventure, it was a terrible movie and you

      were just wretched all the way through.

I agree with Neal Freeman that, objectively, you

      are ALWAYS unsatisfactory

And incredibly tacky: I know someone who

      saw you stinking drunk and stumbling down a

      corridor in the Traymore, now you always

      remind me of Atlantic City, and that’s dreary.

Every time you’re on Dick Cavett I get embarrassed

      for him just watching you talk.

You never answer the questions. You never remotely

      answer the questions.

Shelley, sometimes I don’t think I can take it you

      depress me so, but you fascinate the hell out of

      me just the same

And I say with a sigh, “It’s okay, it’s just the

      way Shelley is.”

I’m so young, you’re so dumb, it never could work

      still I watch you every chance I get and love

      you, you’re such a mess

—Tim Dlugos

More: Literary Hub

What is the Best Literary Film Adaptation of the Last 50 Years?

Literary Hub  has compiled a list of 64 of their favourite adaptations from the last 50 years divided into 4 genres (Comedy, Drama, Action/Thriller and SFF/Horror). Voting is now open for Best Contemporary Literary Film Adaptations Bracket. I was surprised to find that I had seen almost every movie in this round and read most of the books.

One Train May Hide Another

One Train May Hide Another

Kenneth Koch

1925 –2002

(sign at a railroad crossing in Kenya)

In a poem, one line may hide another line,

As at a crossing, one train may hide another train.

That is, if you are waiting to cross

The tracks, wait to do it for one moment at

Least after the first train is gone. And so when you read

Wait until you have read the next line—

Then it is safe to go on reading.

In a family one sister may conceal another,

So, when you are courting, it’s best to have them all in view

Otherwise in coming to find one you may love another.

One father or one brother may hide the man,

If you are a woman, whom you have been waiting to love.

So always standing in front of something the other

As words stand in front of objects, feelings, and ideas.

One wish may hide another. And one person’s reputation may hide

The reputation of another. One dog may conceal another

On a lawn, so if you escape the first one you’re not necessarily safe;

One lilac may hide another and then a lot of lilacs and on the Appia

Antica one tomb

May hide a number of other tombs. In love, one reproach may hide another,

One small complaint may hide a great one.

One injustice may hide another—one colonial may hide another,

One blaring red uniform another, and another, a whole column. One bath

may hide another bath

As when, after bathing, one walks out into the rain.

One idea may hide another: Life is simple

Hide Life is incredibly complex, as in the prose of Gertrude Stein

One sentence hides another and is another as well. And in the laboratory

One invention may hide another invention,

One evening may hide another, one shadow, a nest of shadows.

One dark red, or one blue, or one purple—this is a painting

By someone after Matisse. One waits at the tracks until they pass,

These hidden doubles or, sometimes, likenesses. One identical twin

May hide the other. And there may be even more in there! The obstetrician

Gazes at the Valley of the Var. We used to live there, my wife and I, but

One life hid another life. And now she is gone and I am here.

A vivacious mother hides a gawky daughter. The daughter hides

Her own vivacious daughter in turn. They are in

A railway station and the daughter is holding a bag

Bigger than her mother’s bag and successfully hides it.

In offering to pick up the daughter’s bag one finds oneself confronted by

the mother’s

And has to carry that one, too. So one hitchhiker

May deliberately hide another and one cup of coffee

Another, too, until one is over-excited. One love may hide another love

or the same love

As when “I love you” suddenly rings false and one discovers

The better love lingering behind, as when “I’m full of doubts”

Hides “I’m certain about something and it is that”

And one dream may hide another as is well known, always, too. In the

Garden of Eden

Adam and Eve may hide the real Adam and Eve.

Jerusalem may hide another Jerusalem.

When you come to something, stop to let it pass

So you can see what else is there. At home, no matter where,

Internal tracks pose dangers, too: one memory

Certainly hides another, that being what memory is all about,

The eternal reverse succession of contemplated entities. Reading 

A Sentimental Journey look around

When you have finished, forTristram Shandy, to see

If it is standing there, it should be, stronger

And more profound and theretofore hidden as Santa Maria Maggiore

May be hidden by similar churches inside Rome. One sidewalk

May hide another, as when you’re asleep there, and

One song hide another song; a pounding upstairs

Hide the beating of drums. One friend may hide another, you sit at the

foot of a tree

With one and when you get up to leave there is another

Whom you’d have preferred to talk to all along. One teacher,

One doctor, one ecstasy, one illness, one woman, one man

May hide another. Pause to let the first one pass.

You think, Now it is safe to cross and you are hit by the next one. It 

can be important

To have waited at least a moment to see what was already there.

From One Train, published by Alfred A. Knopf, 1994. Copyright © 1994 by Kenneth Koch. 

(Academy of American Poets)

Mary Oliver: Saved by the Beauty of the World TRAILER

If poetry had a pop icon, Mary Oliver would be it.  Featuring poems read by Helena Bonham Carter, Steve Buscemi, Stephen Colbert, Lucy Dacus, Jesse Welles, and Oprah Winfrey.