SPEECH BUBBLE MAGAZINE: THE BEST OF ISSUES 1, 2 AND 3
Edited by Elijah Toten
Published by Speech Bubble Magazine
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Speech Bubble Magazine
Thanks to authors:
Joseph Carfagno, Robert E. Petras, Don Hucks, William Doreski, T.A. Toten, Katie Moore, Marc Nash, Brittany Michelson, Sue Ann Connaughton, Melodie Corrigall, A. Joseph Black, Graham Tugwell, Leslie John Thomson, Washington
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Introduction
Speech Bubble Magazine started in October of 2010 as an idea to explore dialogue and narratives with a collection of stories and poetry featuring those specific elements. It quickly became more than that with the release of the Issue One on March 1st, 2011. It became a showcase of fantastic work from authors with a clear grasp of great conversation in their stories and poetry. We were surprised to receive so many submissions before the release of our first issue, and the response after that surprised us even more.
The truth is, we wondered at the beginning, how well would a small online publication based in Kosciusko, Mississippi do? We received plenty of submissions when our first call went out, and the submissions still continue.
So much of the work we received was utterly fantastic that we then found ourselves with the task of going through and picking only the best of the submissions for the publication. We had a very clear idea of what we wanted to feature in our magazine, and it was clear to us that authors were clear on what we were trying to do too. It is still, even four issues in, the hardest thing for us to do - choosing which stories and poems to feature on the site. We genuinely care and struggle with each decision and hate when we must send a rejection. But that part of the job is a trade-off for what we end up with: A spectacular display of the best dialogue and experimental narrative on the web.
The truth though, about Speech Bubble Magazine, is we only read and choose the stories. The author writes them.
That is what this book is focused on: Fourteen fantastic stories from Issues One, Two and Three of Speech Bubble Magazine.
Enjoy.
Elijah Toten
On Tuesdays We Wear Sexy Hats (And Tell Ourselves It’s Fine To Bleed)
Barzan And The Great Switcheroo
On Tuesdays We Wear Sexy Hats (And Tell Ourselves It’s Fine To Bleed)
By Graham Tugwell
Graham Tugwell is a PhD student with the School of English, Trinity College Dublin, where he teaches Popular and Modernist Fiction. The recipient of the College Green Literary Prize 2010, he has work forthcoming in Kerouac’s Dog Magazine, THIS Literary Magazine, Jersey Devil Press, Anemone Sidecar, Plain Spoke, Sein und Werden, Pyrta, The Quotable, Battered Suitcase, Thoughtsmith and Anobium.
His face a puckering, bloating thing— lips curling to vainly contain the glee. His eyes like the freckles on dice; rolling, spinning, juddering to a stop. His eyebrows manic shrugs of amber fluff; fish-hooking up and down his face.
Stonely wanted me to say it— unspoken words bulged out his lips into a pout, puffed his cheeks to swallow eyes. His hands enwrapped in shopping bags palsied with pleasure, rustling, rustling—
Smirking, I leant against the doorframe.
Let the pressure build.
See who breaks first!
Excited words worked in the softness of his face, boiling, broiling, until, with a burst of exasperation Stonely threw his chin upwards, hands shuddering—“Christ! Just say it!”
I examined the cuticles of my right hand minutely.
“Say what?” I asked, nonchalance leaving the words half-formed, as if I could go a hundred lives and never know the answer.
He narrowed his eyes.
“Ohhh… you…” he shook his head—words unfit to express his detestation.
In one swift tumbling jounce my facade fell. We shared a wide face-cracking grin.
“What day is it?” I asked.
Stonely held the plastic bags level with his face, shook them, rustling, from side to side—“It’sTuesday!”
*
Stonely knelt beside my bed. His hands scurried in the plastic bag, closed upon their quarry, then backed out slowly, delicately.
“What about this one? The brim’s rather fetching, don’t you think?”
My breath caught— In his hands, an emerald homburg, flecked with tiger’s eyes, its grosgrain ribbon a murderous electric pink, the brim a tinkling cascade of tear-drops linked with copper rings.
“Can I?”—I held out my hand. The green felt was lovely to touch and the faux diamonds split the light in rainbows— “How sexy is this?”I asked.
Stonely waggled his fluffy brows. “It’s a five.”
Caressing it, I slowly blew air through pursed lips. “Dunno if I could pull off a five.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. Little children wear fives— you’re more than ready—”
“Shouldn’t I try a three, and if that works, go to four? Just for safety? Walk before you run, and all that.”
His eyelids came down, scorn bleeding into every syllable. “Five is the lowest I have. Honestly, if you choose anything less than five, I’m telling you now, we are not friends.” His lips thinned. “I will not be seen with anyone sporting a four. Certainly not a three.”
I looked at it. “Maybe if we take the diamonds off the brim…”
Stonely recoiled. “Have you had a stroke? The brim is the sexiest part—Give it back to me.” He held out his hand, fingers snapping inward impatiently. “I can’t trust you with that. Give.”
“Oh, calm down. I’m not going to do anything.”
He scowled, but his hand fell. “You better not.”
I placed the green homburg carefully on the bed. “What else can I try?”
A sudden winning smile heralded another rummagy rustle—
“This,” he said, his voice a gliding thing, “is a six—”
My mouth opened— and an open palm shushed me. “Don’t panic. It’s not an ostentatious six. It’s an understatedsix. I think it would look the business on you.” And as he extracted it slowly, he sang:
“Act like you know, Rico,
I know what Bo don’t know
Touch them up and go,
Uh-oh!”
He smiled.
He held it up.
“Ch-ch-chang-chang!”
A top hat, passed to me to hold.
And I could see that what I thought was solid black was instead a pattern of leopard spots in grey and anthracite, alternating matte and gloss, and the brim was ribbed in charcoal bones and from the dark grey puggaree, a feather long and straight—honey-brown and stroked in black.
I run my thumb along it.
Stonely leans towards me. “The feather’s from a Pheasant’s tail.”
Soft. Lightly scented.
“It’s real. My uncle caught it.”
And bones on the brim are drops of coal…
“A net. He learned their language.”
Close to me.
“The material’s dark— compliments your eyes.”
Breath on my ear.
“I… like it.”
Stonely sat back suddenly. Grinned. “I knew you would. Trust me.”
Placing the top hat on my lap, I asked: “What’re you going to wear?”
“Me? I’ve got a nine ready to go! Atomic fuchsia zucchetto—leather chinstrap— falsetto panelling! But get that hat on —let’s see the fit.”
I looked at him. “I can’t. Sorry Stonely. I’m not sure how.”
He made a face. “Want me to hold your hand as well?”
“No need to be—just show me how to put it on, okay? I want to get it right.”
Upon the heavens did his orbs alight, and slackly peeved his mouth did sigh— “You’ll have to learn to put one on eventually.”
“I will, just show me how, okay. I’ve only worn twos and threes.”
Chewing his lip Stonely opened a brown cloth bag. “Pay attention,” he said, emptying it on the bed— needle—thread—glue—staples—pins—thumbtacks—razorblades—flupirtine—
His eyes twinkled, a French accent slithering between his lips. “I shall do zees ornly waaaanse.”
*
I grimaced.
Flupirtine dulled the pain but I felt blood dribble down the curve of my ear.
“It’s fine,” Stonely whispered, tapping my naked shoulder, “Bleeding is fine… absolutely”—he gritted his teeth, pushed the pin in—“fine!”
The sound of metal forcing itself, stubbornly, in stages, into bone—sent vibrations crunching down my neck—
He dabbed with a cloth. “You’ll be fine.” Dab, dab. “Just think how sexy you’ll be! A six! Betcha never thought you’d get that far so soon!”
Nodding, I softly vomit into the bowl.
Stonely’s hand was upon my upper arm. “Just imagine, me and you, striding down the Main Street—a nine and a six—they’ll shit themselves, all those twos and threes.”
“If you… say so,” I gasp, spitting.
“I do say so. Now—” he put a wooden spoon between my teeth— “Bite down on the handle. I’m just about to do the hooks…”
Under the brim Stonely cut shallow grooves, and that was fine—couldn’t feel them—but when he bent lengths of wire into double-ended hooks and speared them, heated, through muscle—
Well…
I went to sleep for a while.
*
When I woke up my sexy hat was secured to my scalp by glue and hooks and staples and I blinked eyes stiffened with dried blood.
Stonely knelt beside me. He tugged the brim of my hat.
“Now that’s secure!”
I smiled weakly.
“Now—more importantly. Which one do you want?” he whispered, “Purple or paisley?”
I pointed at the purple thong.
*
Lord, have mercy…
We hit the town.
Hard.
And once we’d bought six D batteries the music burst from Stonely’s cassette player, perched unflappably on his shoulder.
“Hit it!”
“Nah, na na na nah, na na na nah, na na nah, na na nah, na na na nah!”
“Here comes the Hot Stepper!”
It was cold in just a thong, no matter how sexy our hats were.
And uncomfortable.
And people turned to look as we walked up the centre of Main Street.
“Stonely,” I said. “Stonely…”
“Let them,” he growled. “Jealous. Like they could pull off anything sexier than a one.”
A man in the door of the pharmacy wolf-whistled and when we turned to look he shook his hips from side to side and grinned.
“Jealous,” Stonely repeated. “Jealous.”
Nervously, I touched my top hat and I must have torn something free because a panther’s tail of blood dropped curling in my eye—
“Stonely—” I squeaked.
“It’s fine—it’s fine—” he said, thumbing the fluid away from my lid. “It’s just the skin. Just the skin.”
And there, kneeling in the roadway, we heard it—high and distant, echoing along the lines of shops so that words are lost in the sound of each other—
Music.
And blood scooped from my eye I saw them, stepping into line at the turn in the road between the vets and the Protestant Graveyard. A half dozen, wearing hats and thongs, and all with chromium cassette players glistening on their shoulders.
‘Tits’ McGuiness and Bosco Sherlock and the rest of the Black Hill Boys.
“I’m scared,” I said.
“Fix your hat,” Stonely whispered. “Tease a curl of hair down over your eye. We make history tonight.”
And leaning, Stonely kissed me, lightly, on the lips, and long I felt it so— found my fingers touching, touching my lips again…
Lifting the cassette player, he strode away. I rose and stumbled after him.
We stopped by the Toll House.
“Look at them,” Stonely murmured, “We can take them—”
‘Tits’ McGuiness slunk forward, biting his lip, his swaggering palms outstretched, the noon sun playing on his saffron polyester Tam O’Shanter, his plum gabardine thong.
“Stonely,” he shouted, hooking his thumbs into his underwear, “What’s your answer? You gonna step in time with the Black Hill Boys or you gonna keep going your own way?”
Stonely winked at me.
His finger raked the line of posing men.
“A two,” Stonely said, leering. “A two—a three—and what’s that?” He jabbed his finger at a fat, sunburnt gent. “A balaclava with ‘Fuck’ written on it? C’mon Bosco—That’s not sexy at all! That’s barely a one! Jesus lads, you’re not even trying!”
Stonely spun elegantly, clicked his fingers. “You see what I’m wearing? You see what me and my boy are wearing? Black Hill Boys can’t handle that much sexy.”
McGuiness turned bright red. “You watch your fucking mouth, Stonely—my boys—”
“Can’t even spell sexy—” Stonely sneered. “You’re the sorriest, most frigid-looking crew it’s ever been my misfortune to encounter. Just talking to you takes my nine down to seven.”
My eyes were on the fists of McGuiness—swollen fingers grinding against each other like uncooked liver. “That’s your answer?” he growled.
“Cross my heart.” Stonely grinned. “Hope to die.”
“That can be arranged!” With a roar, McGuiness lunged at Stonely and the world around me exploded into movement and sound. I only saw snatches of it— frozen moments—
Stonely, ducking under the fist of McGuiness and rising, jabbing an elbow into the flab of his neck and sending him, gasping, onto his face—
Stonely, spinning to kick a stone a hundred yards to knock the sexy cap off one of McGuiness’ Boys—
Stonely, turning to me, saying “Keep down. Keep quiet. Think of all the sequins we’ll plunder—”
The cassette player, spun like a hammer, bursting in a spray of plastic and metal on the chest of one, blinding another—both caps thrown high into the air.
McGuiness in the gutter, shouting: “Their hats! Knock their fucking hats off!”
Bosco Sherlock, weeping, bleating, as Stonely pulls his balaclava off and slaps the livid sunburnt pork of his shoulder blades.
And me— my back against the wall of the chipper, watching Stonely go to work, and laughing, feeling the softness of the sexy hat he had me wear.
I wore a six for him.
Next time, I’ll wear a nine.
We’ll both wear nines.
Together.
And Stonely landing a kick on a flabby thonged arse and joining me in laughter and looking to me with flashing eyes—
And McGuiness—suddenly it’s in the hand of McGuiness; a blade the length and thickness of my thumb—
And in that moment, thoughts; dropping through me, clear and cold:
The rules.
That’s against the rules.
‘Tits’ McGuiness snarls.
Stonely doesn’t see.
I sprint.
I put myself between the blade and Stonely.
And then…
I go to sleep for a while.
*
And when I wake up he’s there.
And the hat looks so good on him.
“Stonely,” I say. “Stonely.”
“Stonely. I’ve something to.”
He’s holding my hand.
“Stonely.”
“I’ve something.”
“Hold on Petey,” he says. “There’s the siren. Hear that? They’re coming. Just hold on.”
He smiles.
“Hold on.”
I can’t.
I’m sorry, Stonely.
I can’t.
Verdigris
By Joseph Carfagno
Joseph Carfagno was born in Brooklyn but lives in Connecticut.
I suppose I should be grateful that the roads were still navigable I thought as I stamped the snow off my boots in the entryway. I pressed my gloved hands under my underarms for warmth – they had frozen again in the short walk from my heated car to the building’s entrance – before shucking the gloves and extracting my ID card from my jeans pocket.
Once inside I quickly strode to my cubicle. Fortunately the folder I needed was in the center of my desk. It would have been better of course if it was in the pouch of my briefcase: I could have completed the time critical task at my home instead of driving to the office at ten in the evening.
I was about to grab a glass of water from the break room when I heard a creaking noise down the hall. That’s strange I thought. The janitors are long gone. There were no cars in the parking lot when I got here. Despite the late hour I decided to investigate.
“Verdigris, what are you doing here?”
“I stay late at the office quite often, sir,” he stammered. “There’s little incentive for me to rush out. Besides,” he made a vague awkward motion, “with the snow coming down, I’m probably safer here.”
I was too taken aback by being addressed as sir to offer him a lift home. He worked in an adjoining department. Though my title and hence compensation was higher than his I supervised no one. I couldn’t remember the last time I was called sir. “Isn’t your family worried about you?” I asked.
“They’re all on the other side.”
“You must miss them.” I had very few dealings with Verdigris. I knew he was an immigrant but no one seemed to know what his country was. Apparently only HR knew his first name. I had always assumed he was Greek but maybe he was from the Balkans or belonged to one of those peoples that did not have a country.
We talked for a while about the hardships of immigrant life. He told me he lived in a small space, had no close friends or relations nearby. He was not close to anyone in the office. I had heard that he did not perform his clerical job very well and often rode the bus in early and stayed late to meet his deadlines. He moved clumsily, he almost never blinked, his hygiene did not always conform to the standards of the Upper Midwest, and he spoke slowly in a near incomprehensible and unidentifiable accent. Sara, the office flirt, nicknamed him Cubicle Zombie. I could not help thinking how apt the nickname was during our prolonged encounter. I had to remind myself of what my pastor would say: Verdigris is a man and deserves our respect. He would be very hurt if he knew how we spoke of him behind his back.
Though we made fun of him (I do not exclude myself though I tried to remain professional), we all enjoyed the chicken that he made. Our office is in a predominately rural area: we are part of what the business press calls farm-sourcing. Though we don’t make as much as we could if we worked in the cities hundreds of miles to our south, we all enjoy country life. Since there are no decent restaurants within easy driving distance, our company provides us with a large break room with microwaves, two refrigerators, and a full size freezer. From late spring to early autumn Verdigris made his special chicken every day. We agreed that the seasoning – he claimed to gather wild herbs from the area – is what made the dish taste and smell so good. Verdigris always made a little more than he could eat and let whoever was around have some. I tried the chicken a few times. It was a little too rare for my taste but I was overwhelmed by how fresh it was.