Issue 18 March 2015 Flash Fiction Online March 2015

Haven’t read the story yet? Read “The Last Man on Earth — A Mini-Novel” here.

Speaking with John Guzlowski, I couldn’t help but feel that I sheltered under the warmth of a favorite uncle or grandfather. But his history is replete with its darkness and gravity. After the Nazis had overrun Poland, John’s family was sent to slave labor camps to fuel the regime’s growing atrocities. Words could scarcely express the depth of horror and inhumanity that his parents endured during those hard years. The war eventually came to an end and left his parents adrift in the world. They could not return to Communist-controlled Poland. John’s uncle made the journey, and when he arrived in Poland, the Communists shipped him to Siberia.
Eventually, his family emigrated to the United States with little more than a wooden suitcase. Working double shifts at a local factory, John’s father provided for the family.
Listening to him tell his family’s story, I could not help but think about the similarities to my own as my own father escaped Communist persecution during China’s Cultural Revolution. We also recognized the escapist impulses that drew us to comic books and how that has informed our fiction tastes and writing. It was a pleasure to interview him, and I owe him a croissant the next time he visits New York.
-Stan

Stanley Lee: How did writing begin for you?

John Guzlowski: As a child, I loved reading, could do it all day but had no books in the apartment where we lived. But it wasn’t until my family, and I went over to a friends house one day that I fell in love with books. At one point, I had to go to the bathroom and went in there, and wow, I found all these comic books in there. Atlas, Marvel, Behold, everything. I read them all. As many of them as I could. My parents had to find me to tell me that we were leaving, I was so interested in them.

SL: Coming from immigrant parents myself, I know that mine looked down on my interest in comics. How did yours feel about this growing obsession?

JG: Oh, they disliked me spending money on comics. “We give you a nickel, and you go buy comics. You should buy something to eat!” they used to say to me. My older sister loved reading too, and she read the sophisticated books. But no, my parents never stopped me from reading comics.

SL: Reading and writing literature are different animals, though. How did you start writing?

JG: It was in my teens. I had my interest in comics and found some other kids in school who had the same, and we got together and made comics together. We mimeographed scenes and everybody was writing and drawing together, all of us immigrant kids. Doug Muench eventually went on to work on Batman in the 80’s and Don Glut was involved in writing the second of the Star Wars films.

SL: Wow. That’s quite a nucleus of talent and artistic community there.

JG: Oh yeah. But it was back before everyone called themselves a geek. We had to endure a lot of abuse back then.

SL: How did you guys go from working on comics together in basements to writing professionally?

JG: Well, one of us would have a car, and we’d drive to Milwaukee or New York, and we’d march straight into those offices and ask around. I wasn’t in the group that went to Marvel, but I was there when we went to see William Gaines of MAD. Just driving around like that we met Frank Frazetta, Jim Strenko. Yeah, comics are bigger now, and you can’t do that anymore these days.

SL: Reading your current work, your poetry, it’s very different than the comics that you mentioned.

JG: One of the first things I ever wrote – and I still have it – is a comic titled “The Crimson Fire Hydrant” which was about a superhero who dressed up as a fire hydrant and I still think a lot about it today. I felt that I came from two worlds, the comics and the concentration camps, and I had a lot of trouble putting it all together. I knew there was a kind of connection there. And when I got older I realized that my heroes were immigrants. That Superman was an alien – in both senses of the word, and that he went through what we went through. When he had his cape on, everyone loved him, he was a success, but when he took his cape off, he was just like us, an immigrant. He had all this difficulty adjusting and fitting in. Well, that spoke to us.

SL: And the themes that these comics touched on, you could relate to them as well?

JG: Oh yes, yes. I mean post-apocalyptic world? My parents lived through it! 1 out of 6 Poles were killed. He lived in an area surrounded by barbed wire with a 25% mortality rate. He saw people hanged, castrated. My mother watched her sister raped, and her baby kicked to death. I didn’t know it as a kid, but as I intellectualize it now, I see the connection.

SL: Many of the early comic greats also had World War 2 very fresh in their minds as well.

JG: Right, a lot of the old guard before Kirby and Ditko were Jewish. There was not only Magneto and his Holocaust backstory but Dr. Doom as well. His mother was a gypsy.

SL: So, let’s talk about your work then. What would you say the purpose of your work is?

JG: I’m writing about my parents. I just want people to know about them and what they went through. My dad had stories, but he couldn’t write. So a big part of what I’m doing is telling their stories. One thing my mother said to me was “Make sure they know we were not the only ones there.” There was such a big concern for that. I never really wanted to write about myself. I don’t feel like I have a story.

SL: Where do you see your writing going from here?

JG: I have a new book coming out later this year, Suitcase Charlie. For the last five years, I’ve been working in genre fiction. It’s a story about a serial killer in a DP neighborhood, killing children in such a way so that people will think Jews are doing it. Then I’m working on another novel, also coming out this year, about a German soldier on the Eastern Front, Road of Bones. It’s based on my mother’s experience, and it’s about the man who killed my grandmother.
SL: Last question. Do you have any advice for younger writers?

JG: Write every idea down. Every idea. When I was younger, I had these great ideas and always said later, later, but now I always write everything down. You can’t expect it to be there for you later. When you write things down, you actually find that your brain is working through things. It’s amazing.

Haven’t read the story yet? Read “The Cratch, Thy Keeper” now.

SM: Tell us how you came up with “The Cratch, Thy Keeper”.

MA: Eh, there wasn’t any real plan behind it. That’s the great thing about flash fiction. You just start typing, and 700 words later there’s a draft.  “Cratch” started out as a piece called “The Snord.” I was at work. The boss told me to write about software. I wrote about the Snord instead.

So “Snord” came out in a moment of skiving off, and I thought “OK, that’s good,” and I sent it to FFO. Later Suzanne Vincent emailed me and said, it’s not bad, but we think the word “Snord” is too silly for a story that ends with an ax murder.  Of course, she was right. She suggested I try to find the perfect word to replace Snord. So I thought up just a few alternates, maybe 30 or so. Tried “Haw,” “Bogg,” “Flim” “Lard” “Hab” “Slake” and “David Axelrod,” but eventually ran across “Cratch” in Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. It’s an old Devonshire word for a fodder-rack. And it sounds eeeeeevil. So “Cratch” won.

SM: It is my understanding that this is your first professional fiction publication. Congratulations! Are you excited?

MA: Yes! Thanks! In the past, I’ve published scholarly articles on ancient mathematics and comedy. My proudest achievement in that area is that an article of mine is cited as footnote #12 in the Wikipedia article on “squaring the circle.” But writing fiction is the only thing worth doing in this crazy hexagonal world, with its pizzas and its seismologists. It’s been a lifelong dream. So I’m pleased as anything to be appearing in Flash Fiction Online, and very grateful to the editors for giving my stuff a chance.

SM: When I first read the story, I was struck by the unique voice which contributed to the mood of the piece overall. Conventional writing wisdom states that one should avoid transcribed accents or regional vernacular. What made you choose the voice we see in Cratch?

MA: I got kicked out of Creative Writing class senior year for writing “offensive” material. So I never learned the conventional wisdom. That’s both good — ain’t tied down by no rules, man! — but also bad, because I end up reinventing the wheel a lot. I could have used some good writing classes. The no-dialect rule sounds like a good rule; Bad dialect is literary plutonium. It seems to have worked this time, but I’d better not try it again for a while.

The voice: I’m not sure what accent that’s supposed to be. I had some vague idea I’d leave off S’s and use a lot of monosyllables. That’s as much thought as I gave it, honest.

SM: How did you keep the spelling and grammatical quirks consistent throughout the piece? Do you mind telling us how many drafts the story went through?

MA: Are the spelling and grammar consistent? Don’t look too hard! Ha ha! I think it went through a dozen drafts, nine or ten in “Snord” form, and a few revisions after I “Cratched” it. 

SM: The story reads like a cautionary tale of the oral tradition. Are you a fan of urban legends and if so, which is your favorite one?

MA: I used to teach a class on ancient religion, and that was in the back of my mind when I wrote “Cratch.” The Roman religion was intensely agricultural, and they had all these crazy gods — in addition to Jupiter, Juno, etc. they also had a god of manure, a god of wheat-fungus, and a god of the bottom half of a door. To make angry gods go away, you had to perform very specific apotropaic rituals — apotropaic means “turning away evil.” Romans would do things like to make the “evil eye” sign, keep wormwood in their rectums, or throw salt over their shoulders, which is something my grandmother used to do (the salt, not the wormwood. Though come to think of it, I never asked her where she kept her wormwood). Saying “bless you” when someone sneezes, that’s apotropaic because you’re chasing off the demons that cause sneezing.

“Cratch” is a sort of modern-day version of a spirit that you have to keep at bay through ritual. Bury mouse teeth, throw salt, suck a corncob, or the Cratch’ll get you. He’s rural, he’s tied to the land, he’s ancient, mysterious, and meeean.

SM: Flash Fiction Online is open to all genres, but I have the feeling that well-executed horror stories are hard to come by in slush. What makes for good horror in your opinion?

MA: Make it scary! I think the horror genre gets stuck in ruts. Vampires, zombies, ho-hum. You’ve seen ’em a million times, how scary can they be anymore? I think psychological horror is the creepiest. Nothing’s scarier than the human mind. 

SM: Please recommend us some horror novels or stories that you think need more exposure!

MA: Ray Bradbury’s “Something Wicked This Way Comes.” “The Circus of Dr. Lao” by Charles Finney. Shirley Jackson who wrote “The Lottery” also wrote a short book called “We Have Always Lived In The Castle” and THAT is the creepiest little book I’ve ever read. Just tremendous. I’ll also make a plug for some children’s horror: “The 13 Clocks” by James Thurber. Favorite book of all time. 

SM: Now here is a curve-ball for you. I have it on good authority that you used to work on The Jerry Springer Show. Regale us with your experiences.

MA: I worked there in spring of ’99, at NBC Tower in Chicago. Down the hall from Oprah, next door to Jenny Jones. Jerry pretended to be a jovial Midwestern Chautauqua, but not many people know he started his career in Bucharest, Romania, as a glue-lifter and part-time rural dentist. We used to organize expeditions to remote hinterlands to hunt for Springer guests. Our dugout canoes penetrated deep into swamps, redolent with magnolias and cheap tobacco. When we spotted a native, clad in too-tight orange sweats, hunting bottles of Thunderbird with bow and arrow, we’d cast the net, and drag him cussing and writhing back to Chicago. One angry captive confronted us. “I am the Poet Laureate!” he seethed. Jerry merely said, “And here’s your long-lost sister, to tell you she’s been having an affair with your wife!” Cue the flying mashed potatoes. I quit, to take a job training circus bears. Jerry spoke passable Shanghainese, had an insatiable fondness for Calvados and Bombay Twist. He could balance Maury Povich on the end of a javelin while he sang “Pale Hands I Loved By The Shalimar” zipping along on his velocipede. He was the little-known Sixth Beatle. I remember Jerry’s hangdog face across the table from me in Monte Carlo, after I’d trounced him at Chemin-de-fer. Destitute, he offered me the codes to the ancient nuclear stockpile under the Great Pyramid, but I held out for his prized possession: a gold phial containing Stan Laurel’s desiccated nose. Another thing about that job: I had my own desk.

That’s all I remember. Some details might have been changed to harm the innocent.

SM: Thank you for your time, Matt! Where can we find you in the world of social media watering holes?

MA: I have a Facebook page. You can look up Matt Amati. Thanks for interviewing!

When that Cratch am watchin’, you better do right.

Suck a corncob if them striped birds go over. Cranes pass on high, you best bury you some young mouse teeth. Wear radishes round you neck.

You see leaves blowin’, best get gone quick.

If it a odd number day, stay away from metal. Don’t move no chairs. Hear toad grunt? Dunk you head in a cold gray river. The Cratch see all.

If a fish bleed, throw salt at salesmen’s eyes.

Me, Hake Jones, I am Sheriff in this valley. I am Reverend. I am Judge. I am Law. Wear me a cassock, carry a long hay blade. I tell man, woman, child. Fear that Cratch. Do as the Law command.

I tell that old Sam Butlin, look out. Sam won’t rattle no can of dried peas. Sam don’t watch for no striped birds. He don’t care a snip for no Cratch.

Me and my Alice see blood smear on the dirt. Skull in a tree, ass-bone on a shed roof. Cratch got you good, Sam!

Only one road into this valley. Only one road out. Thou shalt not flee the Cratch, thy keeper. Thou wilt not make it past the wild, waving corn.

Guy show up from city. He Anthapologist, he say. He got tape deck, he got note-book in him pants.

He say I’m researching the unique religion practiced by inhabitants of this valley. Tell me about the Cratch.

He click on him tape deck. He whip out his damn pencil.

Git out! I ain’t tellin’ you bout no Cratch!

He say You shun the Christianity indigenous to this region. Instead you follow a primeval, animistic cult centered around worship of an unseen agricultural spirit.

I say what? I say You better watch you ass! You don’t go poke you beak round this place. The Cratch am watchin’!

He say I understand you adhere to a strict set of apotropaic rituals which purport to ward off the wrath of your corn god.

That the last thing Anthapologist say. He come round in him fancy hat. Won’t suck no corncob. I thy Cratch am a wrathful Cratch.

Sure enough: damn fool pass by corn. Teeth on road, ditch full of blood.

Empty a pitcher to the west, urinate to the south. Greet the northern sun with a cry of Horses?

Were a time missionaries come thru. Wavin’ Bible, preachin’ Glory. I got no beef with Jesus. But you tell me, when last time Jesus show up in a gust o leaves, twist you up like a chicken fence? The day Jesus start kickin’ ass like that, we all suck corncob for Jesus.

Missionaries get out quick. Leaves blow in a dim Fall sky.

The Cratch rise from tore up hay ricks, float out of wasp-blown mills, curl round stoven crofts where the crows move in.

I see Slocum Joe on a barn roof at midnight. Flashin’ a light at the stars.

Joe! What the hell you doin’? Hope you brung a corncob up there!

Joe freeze up. He come down,  pull me into shadows.

There somethin’ big out there, Hake, he tell me.

Big? What big?

Bigger than us. Bigger than…

Shut you cake pit, fool! Don’t be talkin’ like that!

I done it, Hake! I flash my light up at the Milky Way. An somethin’ flash back!

Over Joe shoulder, I see scarecrow turn a head our way.

Best you hush, Joe.

Somethin’ flash me back, Hake! It comin’! It comin’ to save us! We just got to tell it the way! Hake, ain’t you tired? Ain’t you tired a suckin’ corncob, dunkin’ you fool head in the river? Ain’t you tired a worryin’ every time you trot by corn, somethin’ gone tear you up a treat?

Leaves blowin’ round my feet. Shut it, Joe!

We can fight it, Hake! We can be free of that ole Cratch!

Beam of moon light catch me. Joe look. Cloud of leaves blow round my body. I pick up a ax. Me, I can feel the Cratch. He work thru me. I do right by him.

Hake, what you doin’?

Sun come up next day, see bone on the roof. Blood on the dirt. Me suckin’ a corncob, watchin’ them striped birds blow by on a sinister wind.

I MISSED THE FIRST APPEARANCE of the wish-dragons, so I had to hear about them second-hand from my friend Boomer. He’d been feeling pretty mellow and not fit to drive, so he’d wandered down to the docks and started singing.

The moon hung low and full. Boomer said the sky filled up with streaks of light, one of which plummeted straight toward him. He caught glimpses of wings, of a snake-like tail, of bright, curious eyes, and he laughed in delight. As soon as he stopped singing, the creature flew away. When he made up another song to celebrate, another approached.

That was when Boomer phoned Big Mary. “There’re dragons on the docks,” he yelled. “You have to come see them! Bring Joe too.”

I could hear every word he said. Big Mary was Boomer’s girlfriend, and I was living on her hide-a-bed because I had messed up my hip and back in a construction accident. That night she was already in a mood over Boomer being out late. I thought he’d drunk dialed her, and they’d end up fighting.

Instead, her face turned soft. He was the only one who could ever melt her, and she was the only one who ever knew when to take him seriously. She said, “Joe’s not going anywhere tonight, Boomer. He just can’t.” I felt pretty small when she said that, but I couldn’t argue. I knew I was not getting off that couch.

That night I watched the news unfold online. The dragons appeared all over the world, and they approached anyone who sang. Often people who saw them said I wish I had a camera. Each time, a camera appeared and the dragon vanished. That’s how we found out they could grant wishes.

I wanted so badly to look for one myself. I’d wish away my injuries. Ever since my accident, I’d felt helpless and worthless, and I was tired of being in pain. I’d been spending too many hours lying on Big Mary’s couch doing nothing.

Then I saw a YouTube video by a man who wished for a million dollars. He said as soon as he spoke, the dragon started to scream. It splintered and fractured like a piece of shattered glass until nothing was left but dust.

That man looked haunted. He said he’d never forget the creature’s dying cry. But millions of listeners took away a different point: you had to measure out your wish, so it was just small enough. Web sites tracked which wishes got granted and which didn’t, and everyone waited for the next full moon.

I figured fixing my body ought to be small enough. Then I thought of that dragon screaming and hated myself a little.

* * *

Boomer can always be counted on not to spoil anyone’s dumb plan, but I was afraid Big Mary would tell me to be sensible. Instead, she just said she wasn’t going to let Boomer and me get in trouble without her. They loaded me into Boomer’s truck, and we drove to a beautiful spot by Chuckanut Bay.

“Will you sing with me?” I asked.

“Are you sure you want us to?” Big Mary asked. “What if our song muddies up yours?”

“I’m sure.” I didn’t dare say their song only ever made mine shine brighter.

We were halfway through “Worried Man Blues” when the moon rose. Not long after, a dragon came streaking down. It shimmered in the moonlight just like Boomer had said. I stared until he nudged me.

I said, “I wish for you to have my wish.” The wish-dragon glowed silver, and I knew my wish was small enough. Then it streaked upward into the dark and vanished. Four more streaks raced toward us, though none of us were singing. That’s when I knew I was doing the right thing. Those things could communicate, which meant they could think.

“I’ll be damned,” Boomer whispered. He reached for his phone.

Big Mary grabbed his arm. “Are you about to tweet this?”

“Sure, gotta spread the word.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Aw, honey–“

“Don’t you aw-honey me! You know how nuts people have gotten over this! Don’t you let anyone find out what we’re doing, or they’ll kill us!”

I discreetly pulled out my phone. Big Mary lectured Boomer while I checked Twitter.

“Word’s already out,” I said. “I’m not the only one who had this idea.”

“Good! Let some other sucker get blamed. But we better keep at it.”

A host of dragons circled us impatiently. Big Mary, Boomer and I freed them as fast as we could. More flooded in until the sky turned silvery-gold from the light of their passage. We freed dragon after dragon, and with each departure, I thought about all the things I wanted and couldn’t have.

* * *

I wish, I thought. I wanted so many things. Peace on earth. An end to hunger, poverty, and war. Somebody who would love me the way Boomer and Big Mary loved each other. The wish-dragons couldn’t give me any of those things but one: an end to being in pain.

I wanted that wish so badly I could taste it. I found it harder and harder not to ask. Each time a wish-dragon came, I fantasized that it would grant my desire despite my silence, but none of them did. I had no way of knowing how many would come so that each one could have been my last chance. I pitted my heart’s desire against the scream of a wish-dragon dying, and I stayed strong.

We freed one after another until finally, the flood slowed to a trickle. I drifted off at some point and woke near morning. That’s how it ended, with the three of us watching the sun rise while Boomer softly sang the blues. Say whatever you like about humanity; sometimes we do okay.

And yet.

I wish…

eclectic: adj. composed of elements drawn from a variety of sources, styles, etc.

That’s the best word to describe this issue. Wish dragons, loneliness, and just plain crazy-creepy.

We’re also excited to offer you podcasts of two of our stories, and interviews with their authors!

Our first story, “Small Wishes” by Carol Otte, takes us to some fanciful places but tackles some serious themes. Sing a song, make a wish, all your dreams come true. But should they?

Next up we have “The Last Man on Earth–A Mini Novel” by Pulitzer Prize nominated poet John Guzlowski; a heartfelt look into the heart and mind of the grieving. Watch for links to the podcast of this story, as well as our interview with John.

Last, but not least, we offer “The Cratch, Thy Keeper” by Matthew Amati; a SERIOUSLY creepy story with a stick-in-your craw vernacular that you’ll then be able to listen to, with spine-tingling effectiveness, in the podcast. And don’t forget to click over to Matt’s interview.

We’d like to thank voice actor Elijah Lucian for his fabulous work. To learn about Elijah, stop by the FlashBlog to read his interview with our new FlashBlog Editor, Stefan Milićević.

Enjoy!