Adelina

She wears a black dress,

Adelina does.

And it swishes

As she sways

To the music

That I play.

Oh and those curves,

yeah those curves,

Demand that I stay.

--Angstrom Heineken

She's Got Legs

"Do you like my legs?"

"Say," the girl on the bike said, stopping on her bike in front of my house. "Have you got a minute?"

"Sure," I said nervously, leaning against my leaf rake.

"Do you see how smooth my legs are?"

"Yep," I said, trying not to stare. Wowza.

"Do you know how they got so smooth?"

"Have no idea. Shaving? Electrolysis? Waxing? Beats me."

She beamed a great smile. "I rub pizza on my legs every night at bedtime."

"What?"

"Pizza. The sauce keeps my legs silky. You have to wait for it to cool down though." She leaned over and ran a hand from her ankle to her knee. "Smooth and silky."

Man this chick is weird. "Well, that's an interesting new use for pizza. I like to eat it myself."

She looked horrified, and put a hand up to her mouth.

"Ewww! Seriously?"

"Um yeah. That's what it's for."

She stood there a moment, before putting a foot on the pedal.

"Well, I better be going. Bye." She shoved off and pedaled away. A few houses down, she turned her head, looked at me, then looked away, shaking her head.

These leaves aren't going to rake themselves, I thought, and resumed the chore. Dinner will be soon, Alberta is making pizza tonight. ♷

---

Jericho Plunk is an independently wealthy crap face who tries his best to be social.

House Guests

It sure is nice to have company.

I used to be alone here. Only the radio and the breeze coming through the windows kept me company.

Then they all started showing up.

The first one came in October. The leaves were a beautiful bright orange, there was a slight nip in the air; it made one yearn for the apple orchard with the smells of donuts, fresh pressed cider, and the delightful odor of goats and fresh crap in the air.

I was playing a my favorite record, Chilling, Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House, when I heard a knock at the door. It wasn't really a knock, it was something I felt rather than heard, but it prompted me to get up just the same as if someone had physically knocked. I looked out the kitchen window. There was a young man on my porch. He looked confused.

Turns out his car was parked just down the road, near the secluded nature preserve. He'd just killed himself in it. His body still sits in the driver's seat with a shotgun lying across his lap.

I've found people do that sometimes, especially since the recession started.

But there he was, on my porch, looking confused. I welcomed him in and we sat for a long time.

Once the confusion seemed to go away, I found him to be quite the conversationalist. He was a nice guy. He knew a lot about how to repair things, and since he arrived, has given me wonderful tips about fixing my old refrigerator.

An old lady came next. She didn't say much, but had the warmest smile and understanding eyes you'd ever had the pleasure of looking into.

Word must have gotten out somehow, and now there's quite a few people. One group of young ladies showed up one day, said they'd been walking around the area together since the late 1960's looking for someone to welcome them in. They were all quite pretty, with long hair. They would look extremely worried though, if they heard the sound of a motorcycle passing by on the road out front. Several of them used to be nursing students, and even guided me through the day I tripped on a rotted board on my porch and broke my ankle. They told me what to do, and I took care of it myself.

I wish I could touch them. I often think it would be nice to feel the warmth of these young ladies as they sit around me on the couch talking.

I have so many house guests that I have to wear a jacket indoors most of the time.

---

Rang S. Tylus is one strange son of a bitch who has a bachelor's degree in who knows what. He earns his money as a dildo billboard builder, you know the kind. Billboards with realtors or politicians advertisements. He likes peanut butter.

As You Pass By

Forever an Echo in our hearts.

I first saw him walking on a Friday. I was bored, which happens here quite often. Everyone is just dead here. No interesting conversation, everyone is old as dirt it seems. I mean, really old. And the only things to read around here feel like being stuck in history class; names and dates, dates and names, blah blah blah. Boring. Only a few poems are worth reading.  So when I saw him walking past the gate carrying a guitar case, I got excited. He had long hair and a leather jacket, and his blue jeans were torn. 
I quickly went to the gate and hoped he would see me. Even if he just saw me, without even having to talk, it’d be more fun than I’d had anytime recently. I leaned against the brick gate pillar and let some leg show under my dress. I hope he sees me. 
I could hear his footsteps approaching now. He was sure-footed, walking with confidence. He must have somewhere important to go, a show perhaps, or band practice with his friends. He can’t be late for that. I’m sure they depend on him. He looks so cool. He reminds me of Eugene, he was in a band and played guitar too. He played so well, everyone would dance all night. I thought he might even be famous one day. Eugene had long hair too, and kept it slicked back. He always tried to look tough, but I knew deep down he was just a big sweetie. Whenever he’d get in a fight, he’d say to me afterward, “didn’t mean to scare ya.”
The boy was getting closer, almost to where I was standing, and he stopped, set down the guitar, and crouched on one knee to tie his shoe. Eugene wore those kinds of shoes too, black basketball shoes. His laces were always coming undone too. As the boy looked down at his shoes, I could see his hair flow down around his shoulders, like root beer pouring out of an overflowing glass. Eugene’s hair was not that long; this boy’s hair was as long as a girl’s, but I liked it anyway. I bet his parents weren’t happy with that, they probably gave him a rough time about it. 
Eugene’s parents gave him a rough time all the time. He’d complain about them to me, told me they always yelled about his hair, staying out late, his friends who looked like trouble, all that. Sometimes, he’d get real sad, and he wasn’t truly a bad boy or hoodlum, but then he’d start drinking, especially if his friends were around, and tell me “If my folks think I’m bad, I might as well be bad.” That’s when he would truly be bad, break out windows, get in fights, that kind of thing. 
And drive fast. Boy o boy, when he’d been drinking, he loved to drive fast. He’d get a wild look in his eye and tear down the road, taking curves on two wheels nearly. I’d be so afraid I’d shiver, and he’d turn to me and say “didn’t mean to scare ya there, Echo darlin',” and slow down and take it easy. He never meant to hurt me, honest, he was a real sweetie deep down. 
The boy finished tying his shoe and straightened up, picked up his guitar, and started to walk again. But then he stopped. Right about when he was about to pass me, he stopped! I got so excited, maybe he sees me there, waiting for him. Oh I hope he likes my dress, Mother was so careful picking it out for me. 
The boy looked straight past the gateway, as if he didn’t even see me. He grunted, and with a free hand, zipped up the zipper of this leather jacket. Once it was zipped, he kind of hunched down inside his jacket and brought his hand up and blew into it, just as he would as if it were cold, but it wasn’t. It was a beautiful October afternoon, at least sixty out, maybe sixty five. 
I thought of calling out to the boy, but I thought it’d be best to let him get where he was going. I know how important it is to be on time. It made me kind of sad though. 
I watched the boy go all the way down the street until he turned the corner and disappeared. Once he’d gotten past the cemetery, he wouldn’t hear me if I called anyway. Maybe he’ll pass by again. Pass by. It reminds me of one of the poems I learned since I’ve been here:

Remember me as you pass by,

As you are now so once was I,

As I am now, soon you shall be,

Prepare for Death and follow me.

---

--Echo Chambers

The Honeymoon House

The honeymoon house was free. Anything can be free if no one knows you're there. Don't call us squatters, that's derogatory. I wouldn't call you that, even though the bank probably owns your house.

I'm a practical man. I see an opportunity and I take it. Getting in wasn't the hard part. That was the animal carcasses. But I had plenty of time to clear those out.

The electricity wasn't on either, but isn't that why candles were invented?

There was a good amount of furniture and whatnot left behind by the previous occupants and it hardly smells at all. "That couch doesn't stink", I say, "that's just the aroma of settled memories." The fridge stank, though, they always do. So I lugged it down to the cellar where I use it as a tool cabinet. I'm a practical guy, see?

Borrowed a broom off a porch down the street (I will return it, I promise). Swept that place out from stem to stern. Patched a hole in the kitchen ceiling with a road sign I found. See? Practical.

Her name is Ingrid. She's my bride. She has a good sense of humor. Lets me call her Offgrid.

We think it's funny.

---

--Cleemis J. Mudd, Man of the People

She Rides By Every Day

Her perfume is lovely in the passing

breeze.

She has a husband who never smiles. He makes her wear ankle length skirts, and a frumpy hat that nearly covers her head. She utters not a word when he's near, and moves like a spooked and timid animal to let him pass. I hear her dinners are to die for.

He leaves for work every morning, getting in his Caddy with the dent in the door; it's not new. My friend Madeline, she's a neighbor of hers, lets her keep that bike in her shed. Every morning, not long after he leaves for work, she walks down to Maddy's house and lets herself in to the shed. It's like a different girl emerges from there, as the door swings open and she rides out, confident as the day is long, in that bathing suit and refreshing quality about her. She won't come back until shortly before he's home, and somehow has dinner waiting for him.

We all wish he would go away.

---

Willard Cooper is a self-taught ward of the state.

The Fog

Now it's got patina.

Last autumn I went for a drive to clear the cobwebs. I was driving my Grandfather's old Chief; I loved that car. He sold it to me for a dollar shortly before he died. It was flawless; garage kept for the majority of its existence, there wasn't a spot on it. Beautiful.

I was planning to watch some television that evening, to relax a bit and tune out the stress that end of semester finals can bring. But no channels would come in. So, I decided to take a drive, maybe pick up some fast food on my way home and finish reading the Stephen King book that I'd been working on.

Part way down the road, I found that the radio was picking up nothing but static as well.

I stopped at the Taco Bell and got a Mexican pizza and a nacho supreme and headed home with it, and that's when I noticed the fog.

The fog was like nothing I'd ever experienced. It looked like you could literally cut it with a knife it was so thick. I ended up rolling up the windows as well, because it had a smell that felt like it crawled down into your lungs like a super-strong Menthol cigarette, sticking to everything inside you.

I figured there must be a chemical spill somewhere, but there was no way to know, since the radio and television weren't picking up any stations.

I arrived home, parked the car, wrapped up my Taco Bell goodies so they wouldn't get whatever was in the air on them, and went home.

The next morning the television worked fine, but no news about the fog. I found the morning paper on the porch, and no word was written there of it either.

Later on in the morning, I went out to the garage to mow the lawn. When I opened the garage door, I found the car had aged forty years. Surface rust covered what was once a pristine, well-kept automobile.

No one spoke of the fog. I started bragging about the car's patina, to keep other folks from looking at me strange when I tried to explain The Fog.

---

--Cornelius Hatch, International Pan of Mancakes, or Mouse of Handshakes, or Land of O'Lakes, whatever (quit looking at me)