Juniper

Don't anger her. Just don't.

Juniper knows all the songs. And her voice is so pretty, passersby on the road below would stop and listen, little smiles on their lips, and reluctantly move on. She had a gentle vibrato, and every time she sang my heart skipped a beat.

I had an old piano, it came with the house, and she knew how to draw out all those songs that were laying dormant for so many years, coaxing them out of the wooden box throught the right tickle on the keys. Happy songs, ragtime, jazz; she could play them all. But when she played the sad songs, the sad songs, well that's when passersby would stop for the longest time, ever so hesitant to carry on with their evening. That's because when you write a sad song there will always be an audience.

I always wanted to kiss her while she played, but after the first time trying that, I attempted it no more. As soon as my lips touched her silky smooth cheek, she turned and stared at me with those eyes, and I felt the blood turn to ice in my veins. She quickly got up, and left so quickly it almost seemed like she didn't open the door to go through it. And it got so cold in the room. So cold. I hope she comes back to play this old piano. It misses her.

She returned once, one night in October when the winds made tiny screams outside the door and in the eaves. She said not a word. Uneasiness set in as she noticed a small spot on my shirt, a stain. It might have been a blot of mustard, or bit of underdone potato. She fixed her gaze, and within a second or two, a hole burned into my shirt, where the stain had been. Looking satisfied, she quickly glided toward the door as if rolling on skates, and left. I haven't seen her since. But I think of her often when my shirt chafes the spot on my chest where hair has ceased to grow.

---

Joad Scrapsworthy is an unemployed window washer with an impressive baseball card collection.

The Girl with the Hotdog Tattoo

One glance

From the girl with the hotdog tattoo

And I get

Shy

 Shy

  Shy

--Angstrom Heineken

Gotta Watch My Programs

Photo Copyright:© 2008 Christopher Crawford

The picture wouldn't come in, no matter what I did.

I turned the rabbit ears, extended the antenna, nothing. Just snow.

Tried several stations, none of the channels worked.

I went out on the front porch and yelled to the construction workers who were patching the black top in the street. Heyyy my channels aren't working! Hey hey! One of them walked over and asked me what the hell I was yelling about. He had blue eyes and a dirty hat.

My channels won't work, I said. I need to watch my programs. What do I do?

He looked at me like I was speaking Japanese.

What do I do? I said.

Well, he said, scratching his head. You need a special antenna. Analog doesn't work any more, you need a converter.

Converter?

Yeah, tv went digital awhile back. Where have you been? He kind of chuckled and rejoined his construction friends.

Thanks, I called to him. He turned around and gave me a thumbs up.

Not sure why he was shaking his head. I went back inside.

Converter. Hmm. Well, it's only science and electronics, I can make one, yessirree.

I went into the kitchen and got the tinfoil, brought it back to the living room. I tore of a piece and put it on the rabbit ears. No, that wouldn't do.

I wrapped the tv like a Christmas gift, and cut out holes for the screen and knobs.

Was that a glimmer? Hmm.

I went back to the kitchen and got the scotch tape. I papered the wall behind the tv with the tinfoil, careful not to wrinkle it, shiny side out. Then I took another piece and taped it to the tv and made a little bridge, and taped the other end to the wall.

Michael Landon! There he is. Hmm.

I put the tinfoil all over the walls of my living room, shiny side out, no wrinkles.

Chuck Woolery! I should try another channel.

Peter, Jan and Bobby! Whoa. Hmm.

I noticed I was out of tinfoil, so I quickly got my bike and went to the dollar store with my backpack and bought all they had, seventeen rolls. I brought it home.

I covered the bathroom (with a hole over the toilet bowl, and over the sink of course, I'm not a pig) as well as the kitchen, my bedroom door, and part of the upstairs stairway.

All my children!

Evening had come. The picture on most of the channels was clear now, as was the sound.

I got my salisbury steak tv dinner out of the freezer, warmed up the oven, and stuck it in. Twenty minutes later, I took it out to the living room, sat on the couch, and enjoyed.

When I was finished, I picked up the tin tray of my tv dinner, and saw the picture become even clearer. I got some string and dangled it from the ceiling, right in the spot that I was holding it, and laid on the couch. Perfect reception.

Haha. Construction guy thought HE was so smart.

Jenny Lectric scratches where it itches, farts when she sneezes, and majored in showing her boobs to ghosts to make them stay. She half-heartedly attended the University of Nought and Circumstance.

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